


Paper Heart

by Madame_Klancealot



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Fanboy Keith, Gay Disaster Keith (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), Happy Ending, Insecure Lance (Voltron), M/M, Mutual Pining, Partners to Lovers, Pining Keith (Voltron), Writing, they're adults but take a writing course
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 31,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28689639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_Klancealot/pseuds/Madame_Klancealot
Summary: Keith is the ultimate fanboy when it comes to his favorite mlm romance books written by his favorite author, L.M. Taylor, but his favorite author has deceived him by not finishing the third and final book to his favorite trilogy which leaves him heartbroken and out of reading material and inspiration to write.Joining a writing course hosted by his brother-in-law, Keith is paired up with a guy named Lance, who earlier spilled coffee all over Keith and now Keith hates him, that is, until he learns a certain secret about his new writing partner.In short: Keith keeps shit secret when he shouldn't... and it drags out and escalates
Relationships: Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Allura/Lance (Voltron), Hunk/Pidge | Katie Holt, Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Currently posting each part to my instagram: VHMS0UL. 
> 
> Parts will be up there first, then here afterwards. 
> 
> Hope you like the story! It's my passion project, basically.

* * *

  
  


_ He stroked the cold steel railing staring longfully out at the glittering ocean, eyes a wet sheen filled with endearment for the one he admired. His best friend. _

_ Accepting the decision made between them, tears finally trickled down his cheeks, a wet sadness and a new wave of longing overflowing inside him. He'd miss him.  _

_ Oh, with the count of all his heartbeats, would he miss him.  _

_ “Wait,” Daniel said with no reluctance, understanding dawning heavily. “I—I miss him. I need to tell him that!” He grabbed his satchel, the art book Sabel gave him before he left resting inside. Daniel never looked inside the book scared of what he might find, but there wasn't any time to flip through Sabel's breathtaking art—there wasn’t any time at all.  _

_ Daniel felt warmth shoot into his hands when he let go of the railing, turning his run into a fast sprint.  _

_ “I have a plane to catch.” _

* * *

  
  
  
  


“No!” Keith threw the paperback copy from his bed. It hit the floor with a soft thud, like the pounding of his beating heart after reading that ending. 

He stared dotingly at the flung romance book, sighed then started rolling around in his bed screaming, “It can’t end like that! No! They _ need  _ to know how much they love each other!!” 

The book Keith threw in disgrace was a book written by his favorite mlm romance author: L.M. Taylor. Keith wanted to believe the author was young for his age, and that he indeed was male and around his own age, 23 _ — _ but, impressingly, the author already had 5 books published, and hopefully, oh how Keith hoped, one more book on the way. Even if it had been two years since the author’s last book had been published. 

Staring longingly at his book, lying on the floor in a tent shape, he pouted and then made a heartbroken whine. He couldn't hold it back, it just slipped out automatically. He knew this was coming. After his, which reread was this, his fourth? _ — _ Regardless, Keith just knew that the ending was coming close and that it would rip his heart into pieces all over again. 

But every time, he knew he wanted to pick up the book and start at page one again. 

“Ugh _ — _ how hard can it be to write the final book?” muttered Keith to himself. He laid face up staring towards the ceiling, focusing intently at his glow-in-the-dark stars, wondering about author life.

He may not look it, but he wished to write his own book one day. Romance, Young Adult, MLM fiction, he wanted it all wrapped together in one good book. Fine, the books he already loved, cherished and read over and over again until the pages almost fell out, were more than enough to give him his fill of contemporary romance, but to be able to write your own story _ — _ Keith hugged his giant pillow as he marveled at the thought. 

Something about having your own words made in a times new roman print on freshly made paper, bounded together in a hardpack or glued together in a paper back, resting on the shelves of a well-known bookstore with your own name labeled on the front of a beautiful cover. And the people plucking them off the shelves are wearing expressions of anticipation and excitement. Oh, Keith wanted that. He wanted that so bad. 

“One day,” he said, dark eyes still fastened on his thrown book. “One day, I’ll have my own book and it’ll be FINISHED!” 

His bed grew heavier as he rolled around and flung his legs to the floor, elbows bent on his knees. Again, he stared, and he glared and then he walked to the book, picked it up and smooth the flat of his hand over the cover and smiled. One dragged, little sigh broke out of him. 

“I  _ need _ the final book.” 


	2. Chapter 2

His coffee order was taking  _ forever. _

Keith tapped his foot swiftly while he waited for his double macchiato with an extra espresso shot _ — _ you know, for good measure since he’s at a college right now. 

At Altea University, in fact. It was a university and not a college because it was owned by some snooty British lad well-known by the name of Alfor Altea. Yes, the Dean himself was the owner of this damn fine school. 

Keith had always wanted to go here, but he went to Galra College. A sister academy to Altea, which unfortunately honed a reputation to be the school of Altea’s rejects. 

He hated having that hanging over his head.  _ A reject. _ He’d show this school exactly what he was made of, and that was of Galra blood. He’d perform with the utmost excellence that had been expected by him if he ever went to Altea. He’d give them exactly the juice that they needed. 

Speaking of, Keith finished his four years at college last fall. He took an intermediate course for literature in English, but also for Latin, and a quick, fun course in classical Greek literature. 

In other words, Keith loved the written word. 

He had decided to devote his entire adult life to it. To one day become his own known author. To hope that he’d see a person enraptured by the story he created while he walked by said person reading his creation. 

Damn, he wanted it. Damn, he could never let that thought go away. 

But then again, writing was so. Freaking. Hard. 

Finally, his order was rung up and the barista handed him his steaming cup of joe. Much needed as he used most of his energy to forget about his book hangover, longing back to his reread the other day. 

Honestly, it took him three days to get over that wrenching ending. Although, no matter how many times he begrudged getting to it, he’d never get over how much time he loved spending with Daniel and Sabel. Gone with them through all of their conflicts; their miscommunications; their problematic relationship; their hate-to-love trope that Keith could never get enough of. He needed more. Needed it more than caffeine. More than the expensive gel he got imported from South Korea to keep his set messy, thick hair in place. 

He needed  _ closure. _

And two years it had gone. Two long, pining years where he had to read other books. Where he had to  _ find _ other books that could be contender enough to temporarily take over his love for L.M. Taylor’s books until the final book would be announced. But nothing. Not a single _ — _ out of the 200 books he’d read these past two years _ — _ one had been able to fill that hungry, hungry gap for more.

All in one go he downed his coffee. Delicious. Nutty in taste, warm on his tongue and down his throat. Exactly what he needed at this very moment. Then as soon as the paper cup hit the trash can he felt something hard crash into him. 

“Oof _ — _ ” 

A new onslaught of warmth hit Keith. Hot, smelled a little nutty like his own drunk beverage. And with the cherry on top of it all, it burned. His skin stung from the piping hot liquid sinking into him. A hiss slinged out through his teeth when a lance of pain shot into him from the burn, whipping his gaze up to the perpetrator. 

“Motherf _ — _ ”

“Sorry!” said a high-pitched voice. “Oh sweet mercy. I am  _ so _ , so sorry. I didn’t see you there, and you were coming around the corner so fast that _ — _ ” 

“Seriously.” Keith didn’t even throw eyes at the guy. He saw two napkins wedged between the perpetrator’s thumb and fingers and snagged them as fast as a lightning crack. He started dabbing away where it burned as he said with fire in his mouth, “You’re pinning the blame on me!? I can’t believe it. Next time, use your eyes, moran!” And then Keith stormed away, not giving the guy a single glance at his face. 

Better his mug be blurred than become a hovering target in Keith’s skull. 


	3. Chapter 3

Ages.

It had taken Keith so long to find an outfit suitable enough to strut the antique-looking corridors of Altea. At long last, he went with his usual uniform: Black skinny jeans (his favorite pair, the ones without the holes, though, so, he had two favorite pairs), a deep burgundy long-sleeved shirt and his favorite shiny Doc Martens. 

Did he feel like he belonged here? Not quite, but he was doing his best to fit in. Not like he could take out the piercings in both his ears, or his plugs. His tattoos, though, were easy to conceal since both his arms were shielded by his long sleeves. All that was left was his hair. Two months ago he shaved the side of his head, kept the other side long, hanging past his shoulders. If Altea policy said no shaved heads, no tattoos or piercings, then, _sayonara_. 

Not that he wanted to go here, per say, but once he had been given the chance to try out a writing course led by his brother-in-law, he thought to himself: _To hell with it_. 

In the pit of his wine-red Fjälräven backpack, Keith could feel the weight of his book slamming into him. Whenever he got nervous about something, he would bring a book to calm his nerves. But not just any book. Not a brand new one with its spine uncracked and the pages non-bent or dogeared yet, but one he found comfort in. And during the past two to three years it’d been the second book in the _Paint You a Picture_ trilogy by his favorite romance author. 

A grimaced tugged at the corner of Keith’s lip. His shirt was ruined; a dark stain splotching the right collar and part of his right breast area. It still smelled a little nutty from the coffee, making Keith’s stomach flare up with an angry boil. 

To his luck, he’d never bump into that moranic, coffee spilling guy ever again. Altea was big. So, chances had to be slim, Keith presumed at least. 

“Keith!” Adam jeered with wide, happy arms. “You made it! You even dressed for the occasion, I’m impressed.” 

Adam, Keith’s brother-in-law, was a known professor in literature. Most of the textbooks for the writing courses at Altea and Galra were authored by him. He had a doctorate in literature, and loved to travel from school to school to give creative writing courses. He never settled with a tenure position at any school, fascinated by finding the true author in any person who believed while he traveled on the road. 

“Yeah…” Keith said sheepishly, reminded by the big dark stain on his shirt. “I did my best. Didn’t know they had a clothing policy here.” 

“Not definitively, but Altea’s known reputation does give off an expectation in how their students dress. But you look good. How’s Shiro doing?” 

The question surprised Keith because Adam asked as if their fight had meant nothing. Sure, Adam was still married to Keith’s older brother, but thinking back to their screaming at each other bleeding through Keith’s bedroom walls had been indicator enough to assume they would part ways. 

“He’s _—_ ” Keith avoided eye contact with Adam. This had nothing to do with him. The fight had been between them, but Keith always managed to wedge his way in between. Become the middleman. “Good. He’s doing good.” Keith nodded as he finally settled. 

Adam looked somewhat relieved, a shine waving past his hazel eyes. Was he bothered by Keith’s answer? “That’s good _—_ good to know. Has he asked for me, or talked about me?” 

Better to not mention Shiro calling Adam a self-centered jerkhole the other day. Keith clamped his lips tightly, shaking his head while gripping the straps of his backpack. 

“Right,” mused Adam, the brightness in his hazel eyes slowly dimming. “I’ll give him another call later today. How about you find a spot in the auditorium before it fills up, the course is starting in _—_ ” 

An amber colored brow lifted in surprise. “Shoot, any minute now. Do you think more people are coming?” Adam snuck past Keith to peer down the corridors. 

“Don’t you have a form with everyone who registered? It’s a paid course after all,” muttered Keith with an apparent tone. 

Adam sighed. “I do, but the course doesn’t cost that much and some people... tend to flake.” 

“Who would want to flake on an opportunity to be taught by you? You’re like a writing prodigy.” 

It was true. Adam Wright’s writing advice and research had been studied by so many and praised with critical acclaim also by so many _—_ so, so many. Ironically, he’d never written his own novel, but he did publish a few short-story collections, and every time, he would win some kind of obscure writing award that Keith had never heard of before but would later be told of its importance in the writing community. 

And despite Keith’s wish to become a part of the writing community, he didn’t belong in Adam’s writing world. Adam wrote literary fiction. He weighted most of his prose on social issues, themes orbiting what could cause the most controversy. Adam had enemies, but he also harboured a fanbase that supported him and gave him love for his beautiful, powerful writing. 

Keith could never go that far with his own writing. He didn’t feel talented enough. And, he just loved reading so much, more as an escape than to utilize it as a means to reach out and indict today’s society. 

Watching Adam squirm to see if anyone would show up had Keith’s lip curling skyward. Every time, for as long as Keith had had Adam as a part of his family, would he turn into this… mess. The man would grow nauseated, nervous with nails bitten raw, and in the end, every single name on that form, eventually, showed up. 

Keith stared at his phone, rolling his eyes with a small, teasing scoff leaving him. 

“Where are you going?! Keith, I don’t need you flaking on me, too!” 

A gloved hand swayed in the air. “Check the time, Adam! See you in an hour.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Adam resembled a new man. 

Packed to the core, the auditorium filled with inspired writers waited patiently for Adam to begin his first lecture. First one out of three; spread out once every three weeks. In total, the course would take approximately three months. 

Okay, so, one lecture a month, then, but Keith didn’t like math; he hated numbers; words were more his forté.

There was a clap, and then Adam made a deep inhale and released it looking less tense than he did around an hour ago; his shoulders sinking. “Alright,” he said, smiling brightly. “Welcome to your first writing course out of three, with me! My name is Adam Wright, and I’m known within the writing spectre to have published textbooks on writing, and have published a few of my own creative writings which have been given certain grants and awards. I hate to brag about those things, but—” 

As Adam dived into autopilot, Keith made a sweeping onceover of the class itself. Since Adam was a popular figure within the community, he assumed there’d be room for a large quantity of people. And there was. Stated earlier, Keith hated numbers, but he assumed the room held at least over 100 people, and with a well-balanced demographic of both genders within the ages of college-age to more middle-aged people. 

Keith smiled secretly to himself. He was allowed to be proud of his brother-in-law despite him had fought with his elder brother. He loved Adam as if he too were a blood relative. While he felt his lips still slightly pulled upwards, he heard Adam say:

“Right! So the moment you all have been waiting for.” Another slap of Adam’s hands to indicate his pull of awareness and to pay attention. Had thirty minutes passed by so quickly, already? 

Typical. Keith had been so used to tuning out Adam’s voice at home that he hadn’t been able to gather a single word spoken during the lecture. Did he talk about writing itself? The history of writing? Was there a monologue given as the introductory phase? Keith had no idea because he hadn’t been  _ paying attention.  _

He grit his teeth, squared his shoulders and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table in front of him.  _ Pay attention. _ Adam was usually a chatterbox at home that’s why Keith tended to tune him out and turn his ramblings into white noise, but these words were about writing and he’d missed some of it! 

“Always anticipated within my creative writing courses,” began Adam, turning his head to Keith and sharing a smile with him before going back to the rest of the gang, “I demand something in return from you. Don’t worry, the incentive is that I will deliver my favorite out of your manuscripts once the drafts are fully completed to my publishing company and you might be given an offer to have your work published.” 

That’s right! For every course Adam held there was an assignment. Therefore the long breaks between each course. It’s to have time to write; and boy did writing take time. 

A few heads turned to each other with inquisitive features spread upon them. To Keith as he focused on all the confused expressions swimming around him, he noticed that some of those who signed up for the course weren’t apparent of Adam’s ways. 

Adam chuckled, but not in a mocking tone more like he was delighted. “Nothing to worry about, I assure you. But you did sign up for a writing course, and I expect that you would be aware that something be given in return. So,” he paused to see if every head in the auditorium was with him, “I have preassigned each of you with a partner who has signed up for the course to go together and to write their very own short story.” 

The auditorium became quieter than a mouse nibbling on cheese, but some faces had looks of shock; of being appalled, or even paleing. Others were colored with warmth and excitement. Those were the true writers, in Keith’s humble opinion. Those who looked forward to writing; not those who felt the emotion of mortification instantly take over. That came during the writing.

A hand shot up. First question of the day and Adam, again, looked delighted. “Yes?” 

“I was just wondering,” said a male’s voice. 

Something shot like pin-needles in Keith’s blood-flow opening his gaze a little wider. He recognized that voice. Was it the coffee spiller? 

He didn’t dare turn to see whom the voice belonged to, because Keith had internally decided that the idiot who spilled coffee on him was a nuisance and not worth his time to stress about. 

The familiar voice continued in a squeaky tone, “what if you’re, like, suffering from... writer’s block?” 

“I’ll stop you right there,” said Adam. His lips remained curved regardless of the W.B. phrase, and continued, “Writer’s Block.” Adam paused again, maybe for dramatic effect this time; hands covering each other, hip dipped a little out to the side. 

Another wave of cautious silence filled the gaps in the auditorium. For Keith, writer’s block hadn’t become an issue. Yet. He still felt greatly smitten with writing; passionate to formulate words and sentences and bring them to life into his very own creation of characters, worlds and storylines. 

Writer’s Block hadn’t hit him yet, and he would do anything to avoid it. 

But unfortunately, for some writers—most of them—alot of them—they could be swerved by it like a curveball to the face. As if they never knew what hit them. 

Deep in Keith’s belly, he felt an unnerving, uncomfortable feeling. Either sympathy for the guy who asked the question or it  _ could be _ a foreshadowing to his own demise. Who knew, now that the big bad words had been said aloud, maybe Keith would be stricken with it too? 

Adam’s semi-dramatic pause lingered, until he said, “Everyone has their own reasons for signing up to a writer’s course. You could be passionate about it. Looking for guidance. Be going through a crisis and in need of a change of scenery and hobbies. Or... you could be suffering.” Keith could see Adam’s gaze swift upwards among the rows. “Now. I’d say that suffering is a vital and quite crucial word to use to connotate it with writer’s block. Everyone goes through it at least once in their writing career. It is something that’s bound to be... inevitable.” 

There were a few heads in the crowd nodding. 

“You’re out of juice.” He starts counting his fingers as he continues on. “You’ve written 100 thousand words in a short period of time and you feel drained; out-written;  _ uninspired _ . You’ve started a brand new W.I.P that you thought you knew the entire story to, but now that you’ve gotten a small stretch in it, you feel lost. You might feel that your writing isn’t as good as it was before that writer’s block hit you good. There are many factors to writer’s block. But,” Adam said with a cool tension underlying, “it can be beat.” 

Murmurings interrupted the silent peace between the spaces of air. The pair next to Keith dove into a conversation on writer’s block, sharing their own experiences with it. He leaned over quietly to eavesdrop, of course, because he was seated right next to them, and heard them say that it wasn’t that bad, that they eventually became resinspired, that music had been a solution to one of them, the other relied on watching movies or rereading their favorite books. 

The possibilities to battle Writer’s Block were endless, it seemed. But to conquer it 100%, made out to be a different, most challenging story. 

In front of him, Keith saw Adam soaking up the murmurings. Warmth bloomed on his cheeks; the corners of his lips never faltered once. This was the feeling of a successful class, and Keith thrived in it with his brother-in-law. 

“Great!” Adam bellowed happily. “This is great. I can hear you all discussing the annoying tidbit of Writer’s Block. And as you can see,” His gaze wandered back to the male who stated the question earlier, “you’re not alone in this dilemma. And it also seems, to me at least, a nice chunk of you is also battling to conquer it. So, hopefully, with this course and together with your partner, you can defeat the dragon.” 

With that signature wink, Adam delved into the assignment itself, and the auditorium grew silent again with clean, clear prevision. 


	5. Chapter 5

Once the course ended, Keith stayed behind. 

He was hungry, but he also felt so full. Adam’s first lecture felt like a huge success. Keith loved every aspect of it. Except for whom his partner might be. 

“Lance McClain?” Keith muttered low with a furrowed brow as he stared into his phone. “Do you know who this Lance McClain is, and did you set him up with me on purpose?” 

Yes. Keith had an ulterior motive to why he remained behind once the loud chitter chatters of the other participants left the auditorium stating farewells and expressing excitement for their partners and the assignment. The only sound that remained once the door closed shut was the revving rumble of Keith’s gut. 

“Hungry?” Adam grinned. “Let’s go grab some lunch.” 

With the cafeteria packed more than Keith’s old Pokémon folder, him and Adam found their way to the professors’ lounge. There, they were met with other professors sporting the common look of being old, wearing patches on their elbow sleeves and the women with pinched faces. 

“Why is everyone so old?” Keith whispered as the two of them found a free round table. 

Adam quipped, “Because it’s an old school, and a plethora of these professors have more than one doctorate. It’s a school with good teachers, Keith, something that newer schools are short of.” 

Fine, he made a point. “But why aren’t you a professor here? Too young…?” 

“‘Cause I don’t want to,” responded Adam with a tired sigh. He dug into his chicken salad, urging Keith to dig into his own. 

One bite. “Is it because it’s too close to home? Because you’d have to bind yourself to stay put?” 

Adam sent Keith a blase glare. “Like you’re reading my mind, kiddo.” 

“Well, I’ve known you for eight years. It’s kinda clear that you love moving on the road than staying in one spot.” 

Another sigh ran out of his brother-in-law, but more due to restlessness and in need of understanding. “If only Takashi was as insightful as you were.” 

“But he’s not,” finished Keith for him, taking another bite. Juicy, moist chicken strips bled into his taste buds. “It’s because he loves you and always misses you when you’re on the road.” 

“He’s on the road, too; alot, you know. Don’t pin me as the antagonist here.” 

“I’m not pinning anyone as the antagonist! I’m just saying that Shiro’s…” 

The words died on Keith’s tongue. He took a new bite of his salad, crunching away on the crispy leaves, a cherry tomato bursting in his mouth as he bit down. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say, Adam. Only that Shiro’s maybe more clingy than you. That he wants to know when you’re coming and going. You always leave without a week’s notice. And you’re gone for more than a month at a time, and Shiro is at home wondering if you’ll call to tell him your trip will be extended. It’s like, to him, that you don’t—” 

“What? That I don’t love him as much as he loves me?” 

Adam’s voice shot out a frequency higher than he wished. The other professors in the room craned their necks, curious to what the boistering was about, but Keith planted a soothing hand on Adam’s shoulder, snuffing out what he could of the oncoming flame. 

“No.” Keith gripped Adam’s shoulder tightly. “I’m not saying that at all. I know how much you love my brother, and I know that he knows how much you love him.” 

“Yeah, fine. Then what is it?” Adam bit back. 

Keith nibbled cautiously into his inner cheek, chewing on the question. “That you don’t spend enough time with him?” 

“Don’t spend enough time—?!” Offence had been taken. Adam spitballed into a full on furied fit of how much time he spent with his husband and how him being on the road meant he was working, not because he wanted to get away from Shiro. “Takashi needs to understand that I love him more than anyone and anything on this planet.” 

“More than your job?” 

“Keith. This is my livelihood. If I were to ask you to choose to cut out writing or the person you love, would you choose writing?” 

Discomfort surrounded Keith. His fingers began to fidget with each other; feeling the roughness of his skin; a blister here, a small cut there; maybe put some more salt to it while Adam was at it. “I—I guess you have a point… but, I don’t love anyone.” pointed Keith out with a small shake to his head.

His heart felt like it was plunging down to the bottom of the ocean. Like it had chains and weights wrapped around it and was falling further and further away from his chest. He didn’t like that question. Unsure to why; if it were because then he’d have to give up what he currently loved, or that he didn’t have anyone he loved. 

Keith loved love. He loved reading about it. Fantasizing about it. Creating stories that revolved around it. He didn’t think that Adam grasped the gravity of his own thrown question. 

A hand pushed down on Keith this time. On the crown of his head. “One day you will, kiddo,” Adam said. “And then you’ll see yourself from my position. Love or love. What’s it going to be?” 

“Sure,” said Keith, gently flinging Adam’s hand away from his hair. “So, who’s this Lance McClain guy? Did you think he’d be someone I could get my write on with?” 

Adam hummed, chewing indightingly on his lips. “I honestly don’t know.” He shrugged vexingly. “The courses have room for 150 people, and I don’t have any time or mind space to remember so many peoples’ names at once. Therefore, I have no idea who this Lance McClain is and I don’t intend to find out unless I have to.” 

May sound heartless. But again, Adam did have a fair point. None of the professors at Galra took their time to learn hundreds of names. Not only that, the exams were always anonymous. “Then, the winner won’t be announced in any of the classes?” 

“Nope. I hate calling the chosen story _a winner_.” Adam threw up air quotes. “I find it best for the participants to rather feel accomplished in writing a 50K word short story than to find out they lost a competition. Also, to note, it’s not a competition. The course is just for fun and to help improve in writing. Winning, as you say, is only an incentive to keep on going. I can’t stress enough on how many people drop-out before the second course. They do still show up for the lecture, but in the end, they have nothing to return or it’s a half-finished short story.” 

Points were being flung at him from left and right. 

Why he had to write a 50K short story. Why this crash course in creative writing could be helpful to those who wished to accomplish exactly that. Exactly what? Writing 50K? Yeah, guess he would consider himself one of those who wished that, too. And then some. 

Then finally, who this Lance McClain was and how come Keith had been paired up with him. 

Painfully, Adam had no input when it came to Keith’s mysterious writing partner. All he knew about this Lance McClain guy was what he could gather from the school’s personal app. 

_ChatAltea_ was an innovative app created by one of the promising students that used to go here. The app was designed as an internal school social media to become acquainted with other students who went to Altea. Also, designed to keep track of who the professors were, their courses and time-tables and what’s on the menu every week in the cafeteria. 

Keith downloaded the app this morning. He found two results on the name Lance McClain. 

The first result showed a picture of a cute guy. All smiles, wavy hair and bronze skin. He looked like a surfer, someone who wouldn’t mind using a few extra bucks to pamper himself up. 

The other… had nothing written. Only his age and birthday. 

Internally, Keith wished it were result number one, but with his luck, he’d be bound to pair up with the mystery guy. 

Age: 25—two years, _-ish_ , older than Keith—Birthday: _Not important_ , thought Keith. Since when did he need to know his writing partner’s birthday? It had already been too. 

“Why don’t you have a profile picture?” murmured Keith to himself, dragging his lips. 

Adam had finished his lunch and casually bled into a conversation with one of the other professors at the school. Keith’s eyes bulged when he quickly peered up from his screen to see that it was the Dean himself. 

“Who is this young man?” asked Professor Altea. He extended his hand to Keith, warm and dark in complexion when Keith grabbed it nervously. 

“Keith,” squealed Keith, clearing his throat. “I’m Keith Kogane, sir.” 

“He’s my brother-in-law, sir. Thought it was okay to have him join me for lunch.” Adam fell into a new conversation with _the_ Alfor Altea, chatting with him as if they were good friends who played lacrosse together on the side. 

Did they? Keith didn’t know. They just seemed like the kind of people who would do so. 

Anywho, Keith had darted back to his phone, clicking into his own profile. In the upper right corner a small, blue envelope popped up. 

_Hey, I’m Lance… your partner. How about we meet up in the library, say, at one?_

Keith started tapping away. _Sure thing, dude. Hope you bring your a-game, because I want to win this one!_

He waited a few minutes, but no reply. A discomforting twinge wrung in Keith’s gut, but he made no biggie out of it. Perhaps his partner had little time to text him back. 

But that reminded Keith. If this Lance McClain wasn’t bronze-boy-surfer-dude, how would he know to recognize him in the library? 

_How will I know it’s you when I get to the library?_

Half a minute passed. _I’ll find you._

Right. Because Keith had been decent enough to upload a profile picture. 

“Everything okay, champ?” Adam had slid out of his seat, standing tall. Keith wondered if he thought about Shiro; if he regretted those words he said to him the day Shiro kicked him out of the house. It was hard to decipher him; Adam had always been a closed book, a code with symbols and numbers that one couldn’t exactly puzzle together.

_Everything okay with you?_ , thought Keith, but he formed his lips to a lazy smile and nodded.


	6. Chapter 6

Altea’s school library was big. 

Okay, big was the wrong term. Humongous? No, still not example enough. 

One look at it and you’d feel overwhelmed. Keith did, at least. Walking through the double doors into what he thought at first was The Library Congress, had Keith’s entire body spinning in awe. 

He literally made a 360 degree twirl when he walked further into the library. Endless rows of books, far beyond his own vision. Antique-styled tables were rowed neatly—30 down, twice over, with little, green lamplights so that students could stay here till late; maybe even the whole entire night. 

Keith had this sudden urge to play hide and go seek. Weird, yes, but Keith, as a child, absolutely loved playing hide and go seek, and he knew it would take ages to find him stowed away somewhere in this gigantic building. 

Staring back at his text, Lance had written that he would find him. Then Keith should find an obvious place where he could be found. 

While he walked down the aisles of books and rows of study tables, not thinking, just gaping at the sheer size of this place—someone crashed into him. Again.

Before he could register the collision, papers confettied the air around him, descending in a rocking motion toward the library’s carpeted—such a lovely carpet, too—floor. 

“Dammit! Shit, shit, shit…  _ no _ —” 

The person who pleasantly wasn’t paying attention to Keith’s whereabouts, collided with the floor, hastily gathering all of the papers that fell to their demise. The right thing to do would be to drop onto his knees and start compiling the strewn papers and help the poor guy, but Keith couldn’t help but feel compelled by the final piece of paper drifting down slowly in front of him. 

He grabbed it.

The paper felt soft to the touch once in Keith’s hand. He turned it over to find typed writing on it:

* * *

_ His black trench coat almost reached to the concrete sidewalk, his tawny dark hair wet and twisting. A flurry of pain and pleasure mingled in his stomach. Call it butterflies fluttering or moths eating him away, but, standing in front of him, he knew only one thing…  _

_ Love.  _

_ “Sable- _

* * *

“Sable?” said Keith in the barest whispered tone. “S—S…” He couldn’t utter the entire name again. It had to be too good to be true. It had to be the trick of the lights above him causing a dizzying stir in his mind. A taunting laugh similar to the Cheshire cat’s echoed, almost blared like a siren in Keith’s skull. 

“Sa—” Sounds of paper crinkling drew him out of his sudden stupor. 

“I’ll take that,” said a male’s voice, ringing a familiar bell to Keith’s warm ears. “It’s sorta—kinda the final page, really important.” 

_ Really important _ . Like, book important? Like, the third book in the  _ Paint You a Picture _ trilogy important?! 

_ No. Freaking. Way _ . Keith shook his head to swaddle away an incoming swarm of theories. He couldn’t have been that lucky to chance a collision with the author of his all-time favorite romance books. 

Scratch that, his all-time favorite books.

“Sure,” replied Keith coolly, still hesitant to give Mr. Maybe-Author a look. He plopped down to his knees instead and started to help gather the rest of the dispersed papers. 

Filled with black ink; words, letters, punctuations, in perfect synchrony to create a story—Keith felt extremely compelled now to read them, to prove to himself that this couldn’t be L.M. Taylor. That the turn of the tide couldn’t indicate Keith crashing into the one person he needed the most right now to help fulfill the temporary loss in his heart. 

L.M. Taylor. The author’s name rang in his head like a bell at a diner.  _ Ding. Ding. Ding.  _ L.M., i.e., Lance McClain. Fuck, no it couldn’t, it just couldn’t. But if the shoe fits. 

“So, are you a writer too or something?” asked Keith politely as he sweeped up more papers. Casually making small talk and  _ hopefully _ implying something more indirectly had Keith’s limbs twitching. 

The male he bumped into quickly grabbed the papers neatly stacked in Keith’s extended hand, patting the tops down with precise precision. “I—” he started calmly, but choked on his words all of a sudden. “Shoot. You’re—you’re him. And you’re my—I’m so sorry about earlier, man. I wasn’t looking where I was going and the map of this school is awful to read and—” 

His voice dove into fast-forward, confusing Keith. Why the apology? Unless. 

Finally, Keith tipped his head up to give a good look at the guy in front of him. They had both risen to their original height. Long, lean with an equally sloped nose and deep, rich bronze skin painting the guy’s entire complexion. A short-tousled haircut forming around his angular-shaped face and cut cheekbones. Plus, alluring blue eyes captivating Keith away from his initial thoughts. 

Those alluring eyes darted from Keith’s scanning stare and down to his stain. Once they caught back up to Keith’s continuous judging glare, he knew. “You’re the moron!” Keith shouted. 

“Moran?” repeated the male all offended. He planted his free hand to his chest, face shooting forward. “I said I was sorry. What more can I possibly do? You threw those hurtful words in my face and then pissed off down the hall. You’re really fast, man.” 

Fire crackled in the pit of Keith’s gut. He hated this guy already. 

  
  


Temptation waved over to fling those papers back to the floor, but Keith withdrew from the tempting thought. He pivoted on his heel, fists curled and started walking away. “Whatever man. I’m pissing off, I need to meet with someone.” 

“I know,” said the guy loud enough. “I’m him.” 

Keith cocked his head to the side, turning slowly to face the guy. “What do you mean, you’re  _ him _ ?” 

As in, ‘ _ Hey! I’m L.M. Taylor. I wrote all your favorite books and I’m an asshole because I haven’t finished the final book you’re waiting for’ _ —damn, Keith knew all along that he had some echo of Kathy Bates from Misery in him. Desperation for that final installment was broiling him alive. 

“I  _ mean _ —” said Lance harshly, as he rose to dust his arms and file his precious papers back into his archive folder, “That I am  _ him _ . Lance McClain?” 

  
  


Keith made a face. 

Lance groaned, smacking his forehead. “Your _ partner _ !” 

_ Oh _ . Oh, that’s right! Lance McClain was the dude Keith had arranged to meet at the library in about…he darted his eyes to his watch. Well, right now actually. 

Keith didn’t know how to react. His grimace kept itself distressfully strained and pulled but he wandered over to a free table, plopped his things on the surface and said, “Then let’s get this show on the road.” 


	7. Chapter 7

His brain had blatantly morphed into a beehive. 

Theories of this Lance guy—Keith’s writing partner—possibly being his favorite author had taken over him. And these metaphorical bees and wasps continued buzzing around in him, their wee little voices saying over and over again:  _ ‘He’s L.M. Taylor. He has all the answers you’re looking for.’ _ .

Keith tugged aggressively at his hair. If this guy sitting next to him, who’s way far gone in his laptop, proved to be his favorite author, then all he had to do was just ask. Simple as that. Easy as pie. 

Then why did Keith feel so hesitant? 

“What’s got you chewing your lip bloody, man?” 

At first he hadn’t registered Lance’s voice, too busy with the bees singing their buzz-filled song in his mind. 

“Keith?” 

“Yeah?” Keith finally woke up. He turned to face Lance, stared him down with blood-shot, curious eyes. “What is it?” 

His words came out a little too roughly, but if Lance only knew how much his brain was flooding up with possibilities of Lance McClain and L.M. Taylor. 

Lance narrowed his blue eyes, going back to his computer. His fingers tapped away fast on the keyboard.

“What are you writing?” asked Keith, tipping his gaze from Lance’s focused face to his fingers flying speedily across the letters. 

“I’m just writing,” Lance said, not bothering to give Keith a second glance. “Now tell me what’s eating you alive so that we can make a disposition to our story.” 

The story. Right. 

Keith should be on cloud nine knowing that he can use his free-time for writing. Although knowing that this kind of writing wasn’t for pure indulgences and tailored as a submitting assignment, sort of sucked the joy right out of it. Also, with this little extra fact that his partner might be who he thought killed the mood completely.

“Nothing’s eating me.” Keith rustled into his bag, scooping out his Macbook pro. A fresh document on his GoogleDocs lay ready for a new journey to commence. To breathe life and conflict into new characters. “I just need a few minutes to psyche myself up. I do it for every story I write.” 

“Okay,” dragged Lance. His tapping increased in speed, but he hardly looked happy doing so. 

“What’s eating  _ you _ ?” reiterated Keith, sliding a sneaky gaze at Lance’s laptop screen. 

Could he catch any words that might resemble the final story to  _ Paint You a Picture _ ? Were the names Sable and Daniel typed up a million times? Would the words on the screen set the tone of two boys angstily in love but too dumb to realize it for each other? 

As the temptation tugged on all his heartstrings with an exceedingly large weight, Keith wounded up biting his nether lip bloody again. He had to resist it. If Lance  _ were  _ the author, then he’d be too tempted to ask him what his deal was— he’d practically go ballistic on him and bombard him with accusations and questions toppling over more questions on why he still hadn’t finished the final book. 

How hard could it be? 

A full-length novel consisted of approximately 100 000 words—or more—it all depended on the genre. Epic fantasy, close to 200 000 words, give or take. Middle-grade, easy, 60-70 000 words. 

If you kept the word count then you had the story. Usually. 

That reminded him, like a sling-shot hit him between his eyes. 

Writer’s block. 

Lance had been the one to ask the question about being a victim to writer’s block. Keith understood it now, fully. 

He eased more relaxed into his chair, but not without a few needles pricking his skin. If his partner suffered from writer’s block, then who knew how this writing project would eventually go…

Frustrated, Keith knew there was no use asking Lance straight up about his author career.

However the case, though, he could ask him about his _ creative writing _ career. 

Perching up and correcting his posture, Keith peered past his clean-slated document (yeah, he still hadn’t written anything). “You,” he started, gaining Lance’s attention. Once their eyes met briefly, Keith felt a coursing  _ zing _ hum through his body, his lips growing dry, “Uhm, what do you like to write about?” 

He had to make some kind of small-talk, no use sitting around like two idiots with a grudge between them (well, Keith having a grudge is the more correct way to put it), and with Keith’s impending curiosity, he knew if he got to know the guy a little better and showed him some semblance of camaraderie, maybe it’d be easier to spring him with the big ol’ Q.

Lance instantly bloomed into a wide grin. Those  _ zings _ coming back rippling all past Keith’s skin. “I love to write romances,” he said with a flush crossing his cheeks. He looked away for a moment’s hesitation then went back to Keith, asking, “And how about you?” 

“Same.” Without thinking, Keith could feel his own dry lips peel into a small, shy grin. Why did he feel so flustered? Was it because his favorite author—maybe favorite author—was talking to him about what they liked to write, and that they both had the same favorite genre in common? Of course, if Lance turned out to be L.M. Taylor, then it was a no-brainer he loved to write romances. It was what cashed in the Benjamins for him, Keith presumed. 

Now that the ice seemed to have melted just a fraction, Lance upped away from his seat, closing his laptop screen down, but not all the way, giving Keith a long stare. “How about a coffee?” he suddenly asked out of nowhere, wearing a kind face. “My treat—uh, and maybe make it a little peace-offering?” 

A peace-offering? Oh, yeah, because he spilled coffee all over Keith earlier this morning. He’d forgotten about that. Staring down at his shirt-collar, the dark stain still remained bright and obvious. Keith threw his writing partner a quick nod. “Sure, that’d be great. I’m feeling a little low on juice, so…” 

Lance’s long stare turned into an observation. Another burst of warmth pricked at Keith’s skin. What was he staring at? Why was he staring so intently at him? Then he snapped his fingers. “Lemme guess, black coffee, with—hum—two packets of brown sugar and a dash of cream or maybe a couple shots of espresso?” 

A shockwave of surprise struck Keith. “How the fuck, dude?” Impressed would be an understatement to what Keith was feeling by Lance’s keen coffee observational skills. “You used to be some kind of barista-guru or?” 

“Something like that,” replied Lance. He put a hand on the nape of his neck looking a bit embarrassed by his very good guessing game. “I used to barista at this quaint little café during my college years, and I dunno, I guess I had a knack for knowing exactly what type of coffees the customers wanted.” 

“How in the world did you know  _ exactly _ what I wanted?” It intrigued Keith, Lance was so spot on it almost seemed kind of scary and creepy. Still impressive, nonetheless. 

Lance hummed. “You just seemed the type, I guess.” 

Keith frowned with his eyebrows. 

“Don’t give me that brooding look. I can’t explain it. It’s just… well, it’s a gift,” he proceeded to explain then continued down the library hall and out the double doors to find them some peace-offering coffee. 

And the more Keith lingered on Lance’s surmise, he wondered what other gifts Lance possessed. 

Swerving his gaze left to right, seeing that the other students at Altea were buried far beneath their school-work, he jumped the gun, reaching for Lance’s open laptop. 

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Time was of the essence. 

And Keith had very little of it, he supposed with an inching fear creeping up his spine. Mostly due to the fact that if Lance caught him snooping around on his laptop, it would be bye-bye trust and loyalty and bye-bye writing-partnership, and last but not least, also worst of all, bye-bye final book to his favorite series. Again, he supposed. With his luck. 

He knew this could technically be reviewed as a felony: going on someone’s private property without their consent; but Keith needed—he direly needed—to know. Also, he was a pussy. Just thinking about asking Lance about any of this mumbo jumbo happening in Keith’s skull had his nerves racking his brain like a squash ball against a concrete wall. 

Once Lance’s laptop found its way under his palpitant fingers, he prayed silently that the screen hadn’t gone to power-save. His index finger tapped the enter key and boom, the screen lit up. “Shit,” he hissed low with dreading anticipation. 

He felt like Tom Cruise during his first mission impossible. Body tied into a tight-rope but with his fingers free, he roamed the open desktop. Lance’s document lay minimized on his home-screen, clicking it open. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” Coherent words weren’t found on Keith’s tongue at the moment. Instead he felt a twinge of panic excel in his intestines. He flicked his dark eyes to the double doors, no Lance yet, he advanced to scan the document. 

On the lower left-hand corner he read: 56, 000 words. Halfway through. Lance had written half a novel, in what, the past 2 or so years, jeez. Another flick of his eyes, and one of the double doors began to creak open, he spotted a styrofoam cup snuggled in a bronze hand popping through. 

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” 

Keith started reading what he could of the document in front of him. Two lines, paragraphs — _ something _ , he managed to grasp and decipher before he minimized the document just as it was before he opened the screen and then pressed carefully on the power button, enough for the lit screen to go temporarily black. In a flitted motion, he swung Lance’s laptop back to where it lay initially: Mission complete. 

“Here you are—coffee: black, with a dash of cream and—” Lance flung two long packets of sugar next to Keith’s Macbook. “Two brown sugars. Enjoy.” 

“Thanks, man,” said Keith, straining not to sound jumpy and nervous in his voice. He grabbed the hot coffee, popped the lid and broke the two packets of sugar into his steaming liquid of joy. One sip and the substance scorched the tip of his tongue. He refrained from hissing in pain, because he knew he deserved it. 

“It’s kind of hot, so maybe wait a few minutes.” 

Staring past the cup’s lid, Keith scowled but only for a brief moment and set the cup back down. “Sure. Don’t want a repeat of what happened earlier.” 

Lance’s features darkened in response and his nether lip slightly pouted. “I said I was sorry. I brought you a peace-offering!” 

“And the offer is taken with gratitude and surrender. Relax, man. I’m not mad anymore. Though you did ruin my best shirt.” 

Blue-blue eyes swam from Keith’s smug grin down to his red shirt-collar. Lance sighed. “I can buy you a new one, does that sound good?” 

_ What sounds good is you finishing your damn book _ , thought Keith.

  
  


* * *

_ “Daniel, you know us going into a relationship isn’t wise,” said Sable with a sad expression, handing back the easel Daniel gave him, with the portrait he had painted only for him.  _

_ His love for this boy sky-rocketed far past where the universe’s edge lay. If only Sable felt the same way back would he run into him, wrap his arms around him like the birthday gift he always wanted and unwrap the words he had tied on his tongue ever since he realized he had these deep, deep feelings for him. _

* * *

  
  
  
  


Keith, still in silent shock, narrowed a tunneled look across where his favorite author sat contemplating a plan to whip up his tainted writing shape. Because that’s right, Lance McClain was indeed, L.M. Taylor. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Lance asked, quirking a fine, brown brow up to his hairline. “I promised to buy you a new shirt, no need for the murder look. We’re not writing a horror, are we?”

Yikes. Keith swore to God he hoped they weren’t. Horror, mystery or anything crime-like was way out of Keith’s field of writing expertises, or comfort zone to put it nicely. Not only that, writing any of these genres involved something more gruesome than writing said genre: Research. 

Quickly, Keith flipped his thick, black bangs away from his face, shaking his head in the process. “Sweet lord, we are not writing anything that has to do with murder, monsters, investigations or any of that stuff. I hate doing research so much I’d rather spill hot coffee all over my favorite shirt. But what do you know.” Keith smirked. 

Lance rolled his eyes. “Duly noted. Then what should we write about? I’ve been waiting for you to warm up to me—don’t you dare make a new coffee pun, I’ve got it by now—and in the meanwhile I’ve been writing on my latest.” 

That gained Keith’s full attention. “Which is?” he asked, nonchalantly. Not that he already knew, but Lance didn’t know that. He made sure he wouldn’t find out either. 

A new streak of red formed across the apples of Lance’s high cheeks. He looked away at first, made a nervous chuckle and said, “Uhm—it’s sort of private. I don’t like talking about my personal writings with people I don’t know that well.” 

_ Then why the hell mention it at all?!  _

Lance’s answer started to grind Keith’s inner gears. If they were going to be partners, everything had to go by like clockwork. 

Sure, Keith could rat Lance out and say that he knew what he’d been writing about, but that would terminate the fact that Keith snooped on Lance’s computer without his consent, which again, would have Lance presumably stomping out of this grand library, his feet the only echoes Keith will have as his final reminders of his favorite author. 

Fuck. He’d done it. 

Snooping on Lance’s laptop had been a bad idea, Keith resolved. If only he could have mustered up the courage to ask Lance if he were L.M. Taylor then none of this would have to go down as it had. Still, how the hell would Keith be able to pinch in a question like that? 

_ ‘Oh, by the way, I saw some familiar names on one of the papers you dropped. You don’t happen to be the author L.M. Taylor?’ _

Cringing massively, Keith knew that was exactly how it should have gone down, but now that chance was shot. Shot dead, dead, dead in the dark. 

“Okay, then,” Keith said, pulling into a warm grin, though feeling ice-cold and numb out of his mind inside. “You did mention it, just thought you wanted to elaborate.” 

“I was just making small-talk, no need to pry,” Lance bit back. 

Keith sighed, tapping his fingers offensively on the deep, mahogany table. “Listen. We can either bounce back and forth at each other with swords and guns pointed like enemies or we could start over and get this blank document filled with something seemingly coherent. That sound like a plan?” 

With some thought, Lance stood up and bent forward from his side of the table, extending his right hand at Keith. Peering down to the bronze hand, nails all perfectly manicured, cut and white to the bone, Keith stared long and hard at it, contemplating if he had made a grave mistake. 

In all honesty, he knew he hadn’t. This should prove more to be a happy coincidence than something harrowing and embarrassing. 

Without regression, Keith leaned over to take Lance’s hand. By doing so, he bumped his elbow in his backpack, which fell to the floor, and all of its contents in it. 


	9. Chapter 9

It was like watching a slow-motion Snyder cut. 

The Flash himself wouldn’t have been quick enough to swipe Keith’s favorite book as it slid out of his open backpack as smooth as butter on hot toast toward the floor. It lay there, spine reaching for the sky, just like when Keith tossed the copy the other day across his room. 

Biting his lips and screaming bloody murder in his mind, Keith fell to the floor but forgot he was still holding Lance’s hand. “K—Keith! Let go!!” 

“Shoot.” Keith let go of Lance’s hand. He felt a shot of cold inflict the moment they detached, but a significant swarm of relief once he grabbed his book from the floor and stuffed it back in his backpack. The zipper zoomed past swiftly to make sure it didn’t fall out a second time. 

Imagine how awful it would be if Lance had seen that Keith read his books. Then he really would have to explain himself. Sort of. Maybe. God, why did Keith have to be such an overthinker? 

“Sorry. I got spooked and my body works on its own when my things scatter.” 

“Happens often, I assume?” Lance swirled into a lilted smile. “Or—” His voice suddenly went velvety smooth, “Are you hiding something from me, Keith?” 

What. The. Hell? 

Was this Lance McClain speaking or his alter ego, because Keith knew he was gay, but now he was going gay again for that voice. “I—” he stammered, holding his backpack in a hug. “I’m not hiding anything, but like you, I don’t want people I don’t know to see my personal shit.” 

“Oh, now you really have me intrigued Mr. Kogane,” said Lance devotedly. “How about we share a secret about ourselves each day until our story is written. That way, we get to know each other better and our story might gain some inspiration.” 

The idea struck Keith as something invigorating but also, dangerous. A secret a day. Did Keith have that many secrets to share? It would make a fine boost to get their story written faster, because Keith had no idea how many secrets he could share before he was all out. Before he had to admit that he was Lance’s biggest fan. 

Despite his stomach pooling around filled with venomous snake bites, Keith cocked his head tightly, forming a testing, tight grin. “Fine. I’m game. If it will help your writer’s block, then let’s do it.” 

Mentioning his writer’s block triggered a loud flinch across Lance’s smug face. “How—how did you know about—” 

“I remember your voice. You were the one who asked Adam about how to get past writer’s block. I can tell you one thing,” Keith paused, his head still tilted like a smooth criminal, swimming his own dark eyes from Lance’s stressing stature to those ice-blue eyes staring straight back at him, he smiled. “I’ve never had writer’s block in my life, and I don’t plan to have it any time soon.” 

It would have to count as today’s secret, the paperback resting in his backpack feeling heavier than ever now. 

“Uhm— okay? Is that even possible?” Lance said indignantly with a small incredulous shake of his head. “You’re telling me that during your entire time of writing, you’ve never stumbled upon writer’s block. Never felt drained, or tired, or out of juice to come up with any scene to write? Or felt depraved and filled to the brim with despair about what kind of dialogue would suit your characters. Wondering if they have enough chemistry, or that the words you’ve used have been written a million times over and over again in the same story, and that you’re just… not… good enough. Anymore.” 

_ Anymore. _

If Keith had known these pinching thoughts had stapled themselves to Lance’s mind during his time writing the third book—no, he hadn’t even known who Lance was before today, he couldn’t have done anything. But he could do something now. 

“Lance.” Keith’s voice trickled out firm. Stern. Lance whipped his gaze up, holding on to Keith’s determined look. “I promise, to help you get out of your writer’s block. If it will drain every essence in me, all of my will to write to help you out of this funk, I’ll be there. I’ll carry you in my arms if I have to. You will be able to write again. And you will finish—” 

Dammit. Too close. Keith almost revealed another secret. He swallowed his forthcoming words, thinking about what to say in the next, well, nano-second. “ _ We _ . Yes, we will finish our story and win.” 

He knew that Adam mentioned that the writing course wasn’t about winning. Though, with Keith’s selfish intentions in hindsight, it had always been about winning. 

“Win,” Lance repeated. He flashed Keith a triumphant glare. “That could be nice. Winning. And if we’re going to win this little writing course, we better get planning about what it is we want to write.” 

“Right.” Everything around Keith grew into hyper focus. Laptop, clean Google Doc, notebook and pen with a red feather fluffing at the top. Keith sucked in a long breath, lids closing. He fluttered them open slowly to take in his surroundings again. If he wanted Lance to finish this book, then they’d have to write their story at lightning speed. 

Question was: What the hell were they going to write about? 


	10. Chapter 10

They exchanged numbers. 

“So, it’s 555-093-201. You got it?” 

“Yeah, yeah. 555-093-202—” 

“01!” 

Keith smiled. “I’m kidding! Here, look.” 

Careening past Keith’s side and glancing over his shoulder, Lance’s eyes scanned the number slotted into Keith’s phone. He made a satisfied grunt. “Good. I’m heading over to one of my favorite book stores right now if you wanna tag-a-long, unless, you know, you’re busy?” 

“Nope, don’t have anything better to do,” said Keith, switching his phone off. “Bookstore sounds great.” 

Lance dressed like an author. Not that authors wore a uniform, but overviewing Lance’s outfit, Keith couldn’t describe it as anything else but author attire. He couldn’t help it as they browsed the YA section at Lance’s favorite book store. Cute sweater vest, shirt underneath, gray slacks and brown loafers. And don’t forget the satchel. Lance was an obvious author both on the inside and outside. 

If Keith hadn’t already known, he’d never guessed that Lance suffered the pain of writer’s block. Usually, from what Keith could recollect by watching movies or TV-shows portraying desperate authors, he thought Lance would be waddled down in tattered rags, acting slumpish and go sluggishly dressed. 

But no. Lance, in all wrenching sincerity, Lance looked like… could you say  _ a million bucks _ ? There had to be a more civil, non-endearing way to put to words on Lance’s outfit. He looked  _ good, _ Keith settled. 

Instinctively, while Lance busied himself by the high-fantasy section, Keith felt his legs moving on their own, gravitating toward the YA romance section, and, of course one of his hands had the audacity—so rude—to drag out one of Lance’s novels. 

In a fleeting motion, Keith took the paperback in his hand and with a doctor's precision, slid it neatly back into the gaping slot, right between  _ Magenta Fire  _ and  _ Cherry Pop Red _ . His gaze lingered on  _ Magenta Fire’s _ spine. Bright pink with glossy metallic blue letters, on the bottom it read Garrett H. Books. The book was good, but Keith had been at a low-point in his life during the time he read the book. All he knew, or what he remembered of the plot, was that it was an angsty story about a boy doing what he could to keep the girl. Quite generic in plot; Keith hated the female love-interest to his very bones. Out of all of the books by L.M. Taylor,  _ Magenta Fire  _ was definitely his least favorite. Still well written, though. 

Next to  _ Magenta Fire _ , he silently scanned the spines of  _ Splattered Rainbow _ and  _ Cherry Pop Red _ . His own copy of Cherry Pop Red—his favorite book—still laid heavy at the bottom of his backpack; spine cracked a dozen times, his favorite pages dogeared and all the quotes he loved tagged and highlighted by a bright yellow marker. Still alone, he gently grazed his fingers across the books’ spines, wishing there had been a third book resting beside them. 

“Have you read any of them?” 

Keith jumped. “Holy—Don’t sneak up on me like that!” 

A snicker leaped out of Lance. “I wasn’t sneaking up on you. You were so zoned out and stuck in some kind of book-trance I had to pull you out of it in some way.” With his finger, he dragged out a vibrant red copy of  _ Cherry Pop Red _ , staring at the cover with kind blue eyes. Waving it at Keith, he reiterated, “So, you read any of these?” 

Startled by the question, Keith internally jumped, again. “I—I—” What was he supposed to say? The truth? Well, one could go far with the truth, but at the same time, he didn’t know what Lance would think of him if he stated fervently how much he loved his books. Let alone say he had read them and knew Lance was the author without actually sharing that small fact to said author. “I’ve read this one.” Keith pulled out  _ Magenta Fire _ , handing it to Lance. 

A grimace crossed past Lance. “You didn’t like it?” asked Keith, a nasaly chuckle escaping him. 

“No.” Lance‘s turn to jump now, his shoulders rising tense. “I mean—” he sighed halfheartedly. “This book is… well, it’s a ride. Wouldn’t you say?” 

Holy shit. Keith sustained every nerve in his body not to start fan-boying in front of Lance. Inwardly, he calmed everything. His burning ears, his palpitating heart, the tingles shooting to his fingertips. He swallowed, then started, “To be honest, it was a train wreck.” 

The surprise waving across Lance’s dark complexion wasn’t intended when Keith answered him, but all the same, he did choose those exact words in anticipation for a reaction. Which he received. Had he intended for this? Subconsciously, maybe. Consciously, definitely. Yes. 

Lance pushed his lips to the side, then thinned them into a line. A circle of emotions conflagulated until he nodded with trepidation seeping from him. “How so?” he asked, giving Keith breathing space to answer him. 

The floor they were on had become eerily quiet. No one in sight, just the two of them and a jungle of books. Keith hummed, staring at the row of books in front of him. After he finished Magenta Fire, he wrote a heated review on his blog, one that gained quite a lot of acclaim and recognition. It was even shared on a YouTuber’s—Booktuber—channel where she specifically told her viewers to read the review because she wholeheartedly agreed with every word Keith wrote. 

Did he dare share his true thoughts on Lance’s book? Had Lance been just any random guy who liked to read and discuss the world of literature and made-up stories, then yeah, no problem, Keith would fire loose about his review and how popular it became. But this wasn’t any random guy named Lance. This was L.M. Taylor in the flesh. It was his book, and he—Keith knew—was fishing for dirt on his own creations. 

Such a sly dog. 

Circling back to his review, Keith gathered what he could recollect from his review. “Uhm—well… Let me just start off by saying—” He stopped talking, staring past Lance and toward a spot in the large bookstore. “We’re gonna need something to drink, this can take a while.” 

“How about a coffee?” Lance smiled. “On me.” 

Keith eyed him teasingly. “Sure, I’ll take two. One to throw on you and one to drink in pleasure while you shriek in pain.” 


	11. Chapter 11

Lance was taking notes. 

The moment their coffee cups curled warm and snug in their hands and they found a small two-person table accompanied by rows and rows of books, Lance had fished out his laptop and started typing down everything Keith said about _ Magenta Fire. _

“Why are you writing all of this down? It’s not like  _ you _ wrote it.” Keith leered at Lance. Lance leered back. Clearly, Keith was testing him and given the amount of time Lance dug his gaze into Keith’s, he must be contemplating whether to tell Keith the truth or not. 

Lance grit his teeth, his fingers tensing above his keyboard. “It’s so that we know what to avoid when we write our story. Someone has to take precautions, might as well be me. Since you’re so… full of opinions and all that.” 

Guess honesty was off the table, Keith gathered from Lance’s bristled answer. That was fine. Keith started it, if Lance wanted to keep his secrets then Keith would easily collaborate. “Yeah, I am opinionated. I’ve read a shit-ton of books. And after having read so many books, new books can seem repetitive, tropey, lacking in character development or uniqueness to their story.” 

“And _ Magenta Fire _ had all that?” Lance shot in. 

Keith chewed on Lance’s question. It was the only book he could find critique about from the roster of titles that Lance had written. All his other books: Dive to the Bottom with Me and the two books from the Paint You a Picture trilogy (ehemm, currently a duology), were fantastic! They had no indication of lack of character development, just enough melodrama not to make Keith gouge his eyes out and the prose in those books.  _ Man. _ Keith would kill to have Lance’s writing skills. 

The air smelled like hazelnut creamer. Keith sighed into the scent, then peered back up to Lance who was too focused on staring at the document where he took his notes. “It didn’t. It just—I don’t know, it didn’t live up to my favorite books. You get?” 

“I think so,” answered Lance, taking a new sip of his coffee. “What are your favorite books?” 

One thing a person should always be prepared for when asking a bookworm that specific question, is to expect either a full on nuanced answer where the recipient dives off a cliff and swaddles the person asking with a long, long list of books, or the simple reaction of the bookworm blinking into a void then answering with, “Uhhh— you know can’t just ask me that right off the bat! I need time to prepare. You wanna know by genre, author, series, stand-alone?” 

Lance snorted. “No! Just… your favorite book, or books. Surely there must have been one or two titles that came to mind when I asked.” He popped the lid of his coffee, filling the warm liquid with glittering, white sugar. As he stirred the cup, he looked at Keith intently. “So?” 

“Gimme a minute.” Keith re-racked his brain. His favorite books were of course the ones written by the smug idiot (genius) in front of him, but he couldn’t reveal that yet—ever. “ _ Red White & Royal Blue _ ,” Keith listed, tapping a finger to his cupid’s bow, Lance hummed. “ _ Strange the Dreamer _ and maybe…” His gaze carefully wandered to where Lance’s books were located among the rows of books. He really wanted to say  _ Splattered Rainbow _ and  _ Cherry Pop Red _ , he’d read them so many times he could easily quote them as if they were a Shakespeare sonnet. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Keith said at last, “ _ A Little Life. _ ” 

Lance sucked air in through his teeth, as if in pain. 

“What? It’s an amazing book!” Keith shot back with a guffaw. “If you haven’t read—” 

“I haven’t actually,” said Lance. “It’s on my TBR, but I haven’t had the time to read so much lately.” 

Keith fondled with his coffee cup. “Right. I get that.” Maybe Lance had been too preoccupied with figuring out how to continue his final book. Keith could easily get him there. Guess writer’s block really was a pain in the ass. Especially if it hindered him from reading. 

“So… about  _ Magenta Fire _ .” Lance drained the remains of his coffee. “What does it lack compared to the books you mentioned? Now, I have read  _ RW&RB _ and even  _ Strange the Dreame _ r, but they both sort of deal with the same content as this one. Was it the prose, the characters—” 

“Yes,” Keith flatlined. “It was one of the characters.” 

“Let me guess, Alina?” 

“Yes!! She was so whiny and just so…  _ terrible _ . I felt incredibly sorry for Landon. He was such a sweetheart throughout the entire story. He did everything she asked him to do, all to get her back and in the end, she still stabbed him so hard in the back. I hated it. The ending, the relationship, her character.” 

It was quiet. Lance accumulated every word that fired from Keith’s mouth and typed it all down on his laptop. All Keith could hear was the  _ click, click, click _ of his partner’s keyboard going at rapid speed and the barista behind him steaming milk. “I’m sorry if I bashed a book you like, but, it’s my honest opinion.” 

“No worries,” said Lance. He wore a tight smile, but the rest of his body seemed relaxed. “We’re all entitled to our own opinions, Keith. I was only curious. Besides this is great intel for when we write our own story. No bitchy characters who dictates the MC.” 

Keith nodded his consent to that. “I agree. So what kind of story do you want to write? How should we write it? Happy ending, sad—open or close? Lyrical prose, straight forward, humorous—” 

“Keith! I’m gonna stop you there, you’re going too fast.” Lance got out of his seat. “I’ll order up a few more coffees and we can make a list.” 

When Lance came back with a tray filled with four medium sized coffees, he flung a small bag in front of Keith. The logo was from this bookstore and inside he could detect a paperback. “You went book shopping?” 

“I did,” said Lance, pushing the bag to Keith. “Take a look.” 

Eyeing Lance the entire time suspiciously, Keith grabbed the bag and pulled out its content. A fresh new copy of  _ Dive to the Bottom with Me _ rested in his palm. He leafed through the first pages only to find neat handwriting: 

_ To Keith, _

_ Hope this book isn’t a trainwreck. Let’s write a great story together.  _

_ From Lance  _

There was a dam breaking somewhere, not behind Keith’s eyes that’s for sure. He blinked the dam away from his sight and warped into a full-fledged smile. Waving the book up to show Lance, he said, “Thanks, man! I believe we’ll write a great story together.” He put the book down, traveling his hand past its smooth surface before he grabbed two coffees, handing one to Lance and bumping his own against the one he gave his partner. “To our story.” 

Lance saluted. “To our story.” 


	12. Chapter 12

His phone started to ring. 

One dark eye peeled open begrudgingly, a hand wandering his nightstand to locate where he put his phone. He saw who was calling him and groaned. “It’s 5am.” 

“Hey, sweetheart! I just wanted to check-in, see how you were doing?” 

Keith could taste sleep in his mouth. “And you thought calling me at 5am would be a good idea to ask me that?” 

His mom clicked her tongue on the other end. “You know my job prevents me from calling you at a considerable time. How are you? How’s Shiro and Adam?” 

“Why do you even care?” Krolia Kogane, Keith’s mother who left him and his dad when he was 9 had a life of her own, but she pressed on to keep in contact with her son whenever the time was suitable. For her of course. “Shiro is my guardian. You’re not.” 

“Oh, Keith. Don’t be like that. You’re what, 20 now?” 

“23.” 

“Close enough,” said Krolia indignantly. “I called just to see if you were doing well. Have you found a job yet?” 

His mother loved to torment him in his writing career. She had no support in it whatsoever. The artistic world for her was just nonsense, a nuisance to those who actually made a living. When she found out that Keith decided to go to Galra and study literature she took it to herself to make sure that Keith heard her every judgement about it. Her reasoning: because she was still his mother by blood. She had a right to convince her son of anything better. 

But Keith dismissed her. Over and over and over again. To the point where he screamed in her face that she wasn’t his mother anymore, hadn’t been since she took off before he turned 10. What he did with his life had no impact on her. 

“No. I haven’t. I’m still looking.” 

Krolia deserved only the simplest of answers. Short, annoyed sentences. If he continued, she’d grow sick of him and cut the cord. Only to try again next month. 

“Then how about—” 

“Krolia. Enough. I’m tired and I don’t care what you have to offer. Goodnight.” Keith did the cutting this time. 

When his phone rang again, Keith took it without any bad tastes lingering at the back of his throat. “I’m awake.” 

“Good. I made pancakes.” 

His mouth watered at the delicious nutmeg smell of freshly fried pancakes and maple syrup dripping along the stack’s sides.“What’s the occasion?” asked Keith, digging into his breakfast. 

Adam sat down next to Keith, digging into his own plate of pancakes. “No special occasion.” 

There was a pause. Adam’s silence told Keith that he was thinking about their conversation yesterday, about Shiro. “You know that Shiro still loves you.” 

“I do. I know, but, if he saw me here right now, he’d kick me out on the spot.” Adam ate his pancakes angrily. Regretfully. 

It was their same old fights. Where they argued on who traveled the most. Who never had time for the other because they were always away. That their job meant more than their relationship. Same old. Same old. If Keith ever found someone to love he’d treat them with all the love he had. He’d make that person their first choice. Always. 

“Don’t worry about me, kiddo. Did you meet that Lance guy?” Adam asked, topping Keith’s plate off with more hot pancakes. 

The copy he was given of  _ Dive to the Bottom with Me  _ flashed before him. He had tucked it neatly between his other copies, knowing deep down he’d never read it. That he’d cherish that exact copy for the rest of his life. His heart raced. “I—I did. He’s nice. Kind of a nervous wreck, though I think we’ll make a good team.” 

“That’s good. Great. Have any idea what your short story is going to be about?”

“An inkling of some sorts. We made a list yesterday. I’ll be writing a chapter and Lance will write the following chapter, then we’ll alternate at that pace. We’re writing a dual perspective. So my character will be an opposite to his. I’m pretty excited to see where the story will go.” 

“What you’re saying is?” Adam started, looking thoughtful. “Is that you don’t have anything planned, per se. Just write a chapter and continue from the end of the last chapter?” 

Keith beamed. “Yes! That’s exactly what we’ll do. Great idea, Adam! I need to call Lance and tell him right away.” 

On his way out, he felt Adam’s comforting hand resting on his shoulder, a wane smile resting on his lips. “He loves you,” Keith secured, and Adam nodded. 


	13. Chapter 13

A gust of biting cold wind breezed through him.

“You need a thicker coat, man.” Lance was dressed as if he was going on a hunting trip. Wool coat, wool socks over his trousers, wool sweatshirt underneath his wooly coat, brown bangs tousled beneath his bright blue hat. He was wooled up to the core. He looked warm. And Keith was a cinch jealous. 

Keith shivered and pulled tighter on his leather jacket as he stepped over a raised tree root, and stepped—to his luck—into a massive mud puddle. 

“And better boots.” 

“I’m aware. Why are we out here? I thought we were looking for writing inspiration?” Keith took his boot and slammed it against a thick tree trunk, wiping away the gunk of mud that compiled underneath. “You should have told me we were going on a nature trail.” 

“I said dress according to the weather,” barked Lance back with a subtle snicker following suit. He turned around to catch Keith still wiping his shoe. “It’s cold, I implied heavily to dress warm so I had hoped you took the hint that we’d go outside.” 

Flecks of mud dropped from Keith’s boot. He kicked the tree a few more times to make sure it was all off. “Yeah, but I thought we were going for a stroll in the city, then maybe find a café to work in, somewhere warm and cosy. Not cold and muddy.” 

“We can do warm and cosy later.” Lance tensed. His cheeks looked pinched red, presumably from the cold air around them. “A walk in nature clears your mind. Listen—not a single car honking in sight. No chattering mothers or babies screaming. Nothing but the two of us and mother nature herself.”

Lance was out here writing novels while Keith couldn’t contain the loud chatterings of his teeth. “Beautiful…” he murmured. “Okay, I don’t mind walking in forests or anything, but give me a heads up next time.” 

“Sure thing. Wanna go find a cosy café?” 

“Please!” 

The café they found had puffy pillows galore. Keith immediately made a beeline for a sofa in the back that was filled up with patchworked pillows. He grabbed one and put it in his lap, so soft. Velvety. In seconds, once the pillow found his lap, he pulled out his laptop and the document where they wrote down their list. 

  * Word Goal: 50K
  * Dual perspective
  * Title???
  * Two male perspectives
  * Romance???
  * Angst???
  * PLOT
  * Do they fall in love, or are they good friends? 
  * Happy ending?????



Keith usually liked to emphasize with a lot of question marks on the points he was most insecure and uncertain about. Yesterday, they both agreed on each writing their own character, and resolved they both be male, because Keith hated writing female characters and Lance didn’t want their female to end up like Alina in  _ Magenta Fire _ . So, two males. 

Earlier, Keith had also stated together with Lance that he liked—loved—to write romances. Hopefully, this short story would delve within the subject matter of love. But what kind of love, he had no idea. 

There were two directions their story could take. Either the falling in love route where one character pines for the other and they eventually end up together. Or, they both pine for each other but they’re too stubborn and too oblivious to see any of the signs. Despite how loud they’re being. 

Another bullet point was added. 

  * Hate to love



If their story didn’t have a hate to love trope then Lance could kiss his partner goodbye. The best written romance books, and had amazing character and relationship development, shared the hate to love trope. It could never be overused and you could put your characters in an endless stream of situations that had your reader dying of fright or second-hand embarrassment. 

Keith embarked on creating a plot for their story. He cracked his fingers and began typing like crazy. 

“Look at Mr. Hotshot going ballistic with his keyboard! You already started? What have you got so far?” Lance leaned over Keith’s shoulder, he smelled like vanilla and Christmas.  _ Jingle Bells _ and Mariah Carey’s  _ All I want for Christmas is You  _ started to jam in the back of Keith’s mind. His cheeks blazed, feeling Lance’s presence and those blue eyes dance across his screen, actually reading his writing. Keith knew he could pass out any second now. 

An eternity, an eon, passed when Lance unbent his tall frame and sat down opposite Keith, nursing his coffee mocha. He stared at Keith with those deep blue eyes, intently, invitingly, then he smiled. “I like it. You write well. I’m excited to see where the plot goes.” 

“About that,” Keith started. He pulled down his screen halfway, making sure no one else at the café, of those who passed by their table, could read his words, “I was thinking we do it like this: I write a chapter then you continue with your character after reading my chapter then I continue after reading your chapter. So that every time we share a chapter, we don’t know what’s going to happen next.” 

Contemplation befell Lance. He hummed for a while, his thumb placed under his chin as his index finger rested smoothly on his bottom lip. When a new eon passed by, he replied, “Sure. Sounds like a fun little twist to our partnership. Should we put down any ground rules?” 

“Ground rules?” Keith raised a black brow. “Why would we need rules?” 

Lance gestured a demonstrative hand. “Well, for one, what if I wrote something very inappropriate and you felt triggered by it. Or, I went too fast with the romance—”

“So we’re doing it? Our characters are going to fall in love?” Keith couldn’t contain the giddiness of his heart. Writing a romance story, with L.M. Taylor. Well, in this case, Lance McClain, but same, same. 

“Of course,” Lance snickered with his eyes closed, shaking his head idly as if he thought Keith was acting like a fool, “it wouldn’t be a good story if they didn’t fall in love. Don’t you agree?” He bent over to grab his beverage, sending Keith a teasing wink. 

Bewilderment encompassed Keith. The man before him had changed in a sense. He seemed less reluctant, less nervous. It was as if a color of life sprouted along his complexion, like he had woken up from a deep slumber and a fresh new wave of excitement had taken over. Keith liked the confidence Lance was showing, and it hit him hard in the head like a stack of bricks. 

It was official. Keith was going to write a story with his favorite author. 


	14. Chapter 14

They had set the ground rules: 

  * No instalove 
  * No love triangles
  * No vampires
  * Or wolves
  * Just no paranormal romances
  * No nagging female characters
  * Just no females characters
  * One female best friend is okay 
  * One of the characters has to be allergic to pineapples (Lance is allergic)
  * No undying love confession 
  * There has to be two 
  * Don’t end the story with the characters finally kissing 
  * Or kissing in the rain for that matter, too cliché
  * No clichés 
  * How about no clichés period
  * One cliché is fine 
  * They have to suffer a little bit 
  * They have to suffer a lot
  * Their first kiss must be spectacular 



“Lance! This list is going to be longer than our story…” Keith dragged the laptop away from his partner. He scanned the list, reading every entry for a second time. A smile popped on his face. “Who gets to write the first kiss?” 

Lance sucked on his lips then shrugged. “Whoever figures out it’s the perfect time? Kisses can’t be planned, Keith. They have to just… happen.” 

Spoken by a true author, thought Keith. “Pineapples?” 

“I’m deathly allergic,” shared Lance. “Besides, wouldn’t it be super romantic if one of our characters accidentally ate something with pineapple in it and the other character has to save them.” 

“How is stabbing the other with a shot romantic?” 

“Because he’s saving his life, Mullet.” 

Mullet? Keith tried to recall where he had heard the word before. Staring into space, he fished for his phone and Googled mullet. “Mullet?!” he shrieked. “Since when do I have a mullet? My hair is shaved on one side! And when did you find it appropriate to call me that?” 

They had left the cosy, pillow café and began to wander down the city center. Mothers and babies were heard as they passed by, cars honking and the wind rustling bringing with the cold to their cheeks. 

He felt Lance bump lightly into his shoulder. “So? Your hair’s still pretty long, therefore you have a mullet, Mullet.” Lance broke into a cheeky smile. “And I like giving my friends nicknames.” 

“Okay? So, we’re friends now? We met yesterday.” Keith pursed his lips, watching out that he wouldn’t run into anyone walking in front of him. “And what happened to ‘I don’t want to share my personal shit with people I don’t know very well’?” 

His words slammed into Lance one by one. He flinched when Keith mocked Lance’s tone from the day before. “I just assumed since we were getting along now, better than when we met, I could consider us friends. At least, a beginner's type of friendship. Guess we’ll just have to see where this develops over the next three months.” 

What did that even mean? Keith eyed Lance awkwardly as they continued walking down the lanes of the city center. He knew nothing about Lance, other than that he was deathly allergic to pineapples and that he wrote his favorite books, a feat about himself he hadn’t shared upfront with Keith. Keith found that out all on his own. 

The secret weighed on him. Before he met up with Lance today, he thought about coming clean. Snooping on his laptop was wrong of him, but Keith was desperate. He had to know. His mind had been jabbing him with theories like Lance might be like him. A fanfiction writer. But given from the title of the document: **1st draft-Book 3-Painter’s trilogy** (short for _Paint You a Picture_ , the fandom calls it that too) and just the way he wrote in general, it all spelled author. Not another fanboy. 

His mind was still sprialing. Given from Lance’s sudden shift in demeanour and confidence, Keith had felt off balance around him. 

“Mullet?” 

“What?” 

Keith had accepted his fate. He’d permit the mullet nickname to his being. “Yeah, sorry? Did you ask me something?” 

They stopped outside a building. Looked like a hobby/recreation center of some sort. Lance opened the door and obliged for Keith to follow him. He walked in first and was met with nothing but a quiet open hall and hallways filled with doors. Hauntingly, Keith felt like they had wandered into some kind of psychiatric ward, but Lance feigned no fright and sauntered straight to a corkboard and peered over the fliers tacked onto it. 

“You want to take a class?” Keith asked, forgetting about Lance asking him something before they went in here. 

Lance ignored him, his blue eyes traveling the different colored fliers. Bright pink ones that wanted you to sign up for ballet classes, yellow ones for karate or judo lessons, baby-blue ones for… “Who inspires you, mullet?” he said while he scanned the different fliers. 

“Excuse me?” Lance’s question caught Keith slightly off guard. 

Lance repeated, “Who inspires you, or what inspires you?” 

Keith walked a little closer, arms folded, jumping into thinking-mode as he stared where Lance was staring. “Does that count as a secret for the day?” 

He hadn’t forgotten their little wager. Lance would owe him a secret later or two tomorrow. 

With a small glint sparking from his eyes, Lance replied with a small, humming, “Perhaps.” 

“Uh—” Keith gurgled out. He wondered if Lance was testing him. He couldn’t possibly know that Keith was part of Lance’s large fandom? Really. Keith had been so fast to swipe away his book when it fell at the library, Lance would have to have the eyes of a hawk. Maybe he was genuinely curious. “Art…” he grounded out now, thinking, “inspires me. Music. Other books and of course amazing writing.” 

Lance nodded as if he agreed with everything Keith listed up. He found a pen hanging from a string on the board and started writing down their names. 

Taking notice, Keith fired out, “What are you doing? Are you signing us up for something? I didn’t agree on—” 

“New experiences inspire me, Keith. Like making new friends, or trying out new things.” He finished curving the n to his last name, grunting satisfyingly. “In a month, you and I are joining a cooking class.” 

“What!” 

“Relax.” Lance threw a leveled hand out. “ I’ll pay for it, it’s not that much. I know the instructor, he’ll give us a nice discount.” 

“But what will cooking class help with our writing?” Keith said as Lance, happily, started to make his way out of the building. He opened the door, guiding for Keith to leave with him now. 

Once Keith walked past him with a studious look, Lance responded with, “Inspiration, of course.” 

_Of course._ Back on the streets, Lance looked down at his watch. “Ooh,” he hissed. “I need to scoot, I have a meeting with someone and I really can’t cancel it.” He looked at Keith attentively. 

“Hey, don’t feel leashed by me. How about we meet up again when I’ve finished the first chapter. Have a look at together and you can critique it before you start your chapter?” 

“Sounds like a date!” said Lance and he hopped on the first bus that stopped close by. 

It all happened so fast, Keith hadn’t had time to say goodbye to Lance. Or even register the one word that fell from his mouth.


	15. Chapter 15

He needed Adam’s help.

It had been a few days since Lance took him out on their little woods excursion and all Keith had been thinking about, been alarmed about, were those three little words that had escaped Lance before he rolled away on a bus. 

_ ‘Sounds like a date!’  _

_ A date.  _

_ Date.  _

“When someone says:  _ ‘Sounds like a date’, _ does that imply, like, a real date?” Keith had found leisure along the long side of their L-shaped couch. Adam sat down on the other side nursing a cup of hot chocolate. 

Since Shiro was still gone, Adam took it to himself that he could stay here for the time being. Keep Keith company. Without telling Shiro, of course. Adam took a sip of his warm beverage, a cocoa mustache staining his upper lip. He licked away the stache. “In what context was this being said?” 

Keith had to think for a bit. “In a: I made plans to meet up when I finished with my chapter and he said: ‘sounds like a date’.” He tried to mimic Lance’s tone when he said it, all eager and enthusiastic. 

“So, it’s your writing partner who said this? This… Lance McClain?” 

“Yes.” Keith nodded with slitted eyes. He didn’t trust the smug look on Adam. 

“Is he cute?” 

“Yes!” Keith threw a pillow at Adam. “But that’s not the point! The point is, does this mean we’ll be on a date the next time we meet up or is it just something scheduled???” 

His mind was overflowing with question marks. 

Yes, he obviously found Lance cute. And yes, it was overwhelming him to the point where he wanted to write a 100K fluff story and get it all out of his system because he might be going on a  **date** with his favorite author. Not that he felt like that for Lance, he thought, maybe. No. Again, he didn’t even know him. Only that he liked to go for walks in the woods, drinking coffee and signing up for random hobby courses to gain inspiration. 

Adam started laughing. “Relax, Keith. Sometimes when people become overly excited about something they might say something in the likes. I don’t know what this Lance guy thinks about you since I haven’t seen how he is around you, but maybe not get your hopes up right away, okay?” 

“Sure.” Keith waved him off, then grunted when the pillow he threw at Adam smacked him in the face. 

“Keith. See where this goes, slowly. I know you’ve never had a boyfriend before—” 

Keith scoffed. “I have too.” 

“You haven’t,” deadpanned Adam. “You’ve had a few hookups or very embarrassed flirts, but a steady boyfriend, or someone you really care for—I haven’t met this guy yet. And if you think this Lance guy could be him, then… I’d recommend taking it slow. You guys need to write a story too; your little crush on him shouldn’t be in the middle of that.” 

“I don’t have a crush on him!” Keith yelled, feeling his whole face light up on fire. “I was just asking if he implied we were going on a date-date or just a meeting—a gathering, date kind of thing.” The boiling on his face did not simmer down; he didn’t have a crush on Lance. He didn’t. Sure, he was good-looking and all that. Also, he wrote beautifully written stories that indeed had Keith weak in the knees. But a crush on him. Not this early, at least. “I don’t, Adam. I don’t!” 

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“Your stupid-ass smug grin did,” Keith murmured. He hugged the pillow that fell into his lap, thinking about when he’d meet Lance next time. His document had a chapter finished written, but he hadn’t gathered enough guts to send him a text to schedule their next… meeting, yet. 

Adam stretched when he got up from the couch. “You’ve been glued to your computer for days, Keith. Maybe you should send him that text. Schedule the… date.” 

“Stop reading my mind. I’ll do it when I feel ready.” 

“My next course is only in three more weeks, buddy. I’d recommend having at least half of your story ready by then. How much did you write for your first chapter?” 

“8K,” replied Keith. 

Lance had actually sent him an email later that same day he left on the bus, giving Keith a detailed message about his character. It helped alot when Keith started writing because then he knew exactly what kind of character Lance would write and how Keith would respond to that character with his own. 

“That’s great! Have a quick read of it one more time, then send Lance that text. Meet him tomorrow.” Adam squeezed Keith’s shoulder, and left the living room. 

The cursor on Keith’s document blinked as if impatient, waiting for him to write or reread what he’d written. 

He read:

  
  


* * *

_ He saw him. All long limbs and limbered muscles, dense through his clothes. Built beautifully taller than anyone he’d ever met before. It could be the way he held himself, how he stood out in a crowd, but for James, Ainsley was everything.  _

_  
__Ainsley had just come back into his life like a train ride thundering towards its final destination._

 _  
__And James wondered fondly to himself:_ What if Ainsley and I hadn’t bumped into each other? What if he had forgotten me? 

  
_James hated the idea because since the day Ainsley moved out of his life, he had also found a way to move out of his heart, too._

* * *

  
  
  


Nope, Keith hated it. 

He wanted to crumple up his entire Macbook and throw it at the wall behind the TV. 

This wasn’t near as good enough for Lance to read, he felt. Lance who had the magic of words where Keith only had the undying want to tap into that magic. He wished so for that prickle in his fingers to release a spark, to catapult on the keyboard and write something cohesive enough for Lance to feel floored when he scanned those blue eyes across the screen. 

Was this writer’s block? 

Or just a damning fear of being rejected by your favorite author? 

It had gotten dark outside, the TV viewing one of his favorite movies:  _ 10 Things I Hate about You _ . He sighed into his cup of red-berry fruit tea. Caffeine wouldn’t cut it right now, so tea had become his comforting salve at the moment. While he watched the movie he thought back and forth about sending Lance that stupid text. 

His phone glared at him. He glared back at it. 

Instead of writing Lance a text, Keith opened his Instagram. He started typing down L.M. Taylor’s handle:  **@lmtaylorbooks** . The entire profile consisted only of a collage of reposts of peoples’ photos of his books. Keith continued scrolling further down the page, but without any luck finding personal pictures. 

He sighed longfully through his nose. Then one picture caught his eye. It was a repost of one of Keith’s photos, back when  _ Dive to the Bottom with Me _ was first published. A generic photo, for being one taken around five years ago: Holding a book up and using his bookshelves as a backdrop, although those were the types of photos that anchored in the likes at the time, before the algorithm came and switched things up for the worst of it all.

Pleasantly, Keith felt a plume of tepid warmth embrace his insides. Lance did notice him. Fine, it was done indirectly, but Lance, in some sense, knew he existed before they became partnered up five years later. 

His nerves spiked. “Shit,” said Keith low. That meant if Lance felt bored one day and decided to scroll through his old feed, he might stumble upon Keith’s reposted photo. There was no tag, but in the bottom left corner he saw the repost sign and his handle name. 

Keith breathed out slowly. It was his old handle:  **@s4mur4i** , yes, very, very lame. Luckily, his current handle  **@Kkog4ne** couldn’t be linked at all to his former handle. Another long breath slid out of his lungs. “That was a close one.” 

“What was?” He heard Adam say as he returned into the living room. “Did you do something stupid again?” 

“Again?” bristled Keith. “I’ve never done anything stupid before. I’ve only done things where I didn’t think it out at first.” 

Adam gave him a look. Keith choked on his upcoming words. “Okay, I know it’s called being reckless, but fine, point taken. Don’t worry, I didn’t do anything brash or without thinking… this time.” 

“Does it involve your cute partner?” Always so nosy. Adam gave Keith a sidelong look this time with a crooked grin. He handed Keith a cookie. “I won’t pry, but you seem to be in a little distress. Do you like him that much?” 

If only he knew in what sense that Keith liked him. Not that him being cute made things more difficult. It did, though. 

Melting chocolate chips bursted in his mouth; mouth-watering gooeyness taking over all of his senses. Keith moaned at the taste, then said, “Maybe.” His mouth was full of cookie; taking a new large bite out of it. “Jesus, this is delicious, did you bake this?” 

“Unfortunately, I didn’t. I bought it at the bakery on 5th. Was told at the university they had the best baked goods in town. And given from your reaction, I might have to go back and give them some praise.” 

“You should. This is like heaven in my mouth.” 

“Keith.” 

Keith looked at Adam, swallowing the rest of the cookie. “Sup?” 

“Your cute partner?” Painstakingly, Adam was back on that matter.

The implication came out a little too sharp. Keith groaned. “It’s only been a couple days, Adam. I’ll hit him up with a text, ask for a meetup— _ not  _ call it a date. And see what happens.” 

Adam nodded considerably. “If you say so. Just don’t overthink this, promise?” 

But overthinking was Keith’s best trait. “Sure. Promise.” 

He couldn’t promise anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today! I might do two chapters next time too since this fic is pretty much almost finished.


	16. Chapter 16

Keith sent Lance a text. 

He had retreated to his room. Adam had gone to bed about an hour ago, leaving Keith with two more of those delicious, gooey cookies and a new movie on the TV. After the end credits to  _ The Breakfast Club _ —another classic—started rolling, he noticed that time had flown by. 

In his room, he stared at his bookshelves. He had three lined up against his wall. All stacked to the brim with hardback and paperback books. Keith took extreme care of his hardbacks; his paperbacks, on the other hand, were all mutilated. Except for the ones he hadn’t gotten to yet. Which were quite a few (Yes, he has a book-buying problem, don’t all bookworms?). 

The craving tug of gravity possessed him. He walked toward his favorite shelf. Of course, resembling a creepy shrine for the author, he ran a finger along the spines of all of Lance’s books. “What are the odds?” he whispered, almost still in shock by it all even after a week’s time. 

Another wicked thought came to mind. The odds must have been in his favor; not to quote  _ The Hunger Games _ , because, yikes, but Keith did feel like he had been chanced upon some kind of lady luck bumping into Lance. Bumping into Lance holding his manuscript and flinging them in the air so that Keith could investigate that he was in fact his favorite, most mysterious, author. 

Like a ferris wheel going round and round, Keith couldn’t stop thinking about it. How weird but also wonderful this was. Lance was L.M. Taylor. Then, the bad thoughts squeezed through. 

Keith grimaced at his shelf. Of course he had to hold this secret from Lance. If he told him that he saw what he was working on and knew his secret identity, then maybe Lance would cut him off. Call him an asshole for withholding this information and, yes, cut their ties forever. 

Although, he didn’t know Lance all that well. That’s why Keith decided not to tell him anything for the meantime. He’d wait to see how Lance differed from his author position and then when they submitted their story, he’d tell him the truth. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Or… 

His phone vibrated on his nightstand. 

_ Awesome! How about we meetup at the same café we went to the other day. The pillow one? Say, 2pm? I’ll treat you to a coffee and maybe a snacky to bite into! ;-)  _

“Winky face?” Keith studied the text. “No, don’t overthink it, Keith.” Whenever Keith jumped to conclusions, he talked to himself. It helped give perspective on things and keep him clear of his tangled thoughts. Most of the time. 

He had to respond to Lance's text. But should he respond with a winky face, too, or a different emoji? Why was Lance so set on always paying, Keith had money. Maybe he was just nice like that? Maybe he treated everyone he knew to coffee and a… snacky? Keith could hear the phantom whisper in the back of his head of Adam’s voice telling him not to overthink things. 

Surrendering his back to his bed, Keith couldn’t hold back his irritated growl as he started typing a response to Lance. Angrily, his fingers flew along the screen, pressing letter by letter, smudging his screen with bakery fat, and at last, settling on a stupid emoji. 

_ The pillow café is fine for me. I’ll meet up outside at 2. Bring your A-game. :-D  _

Before Keith had time to hate his text, a new text chimed in. “Fuck, that was fast.” 

Lance’s text had him on edge:  _ I always bring it ;* _

His heart hammered under his chest. The time ticked 12:15 am, and he knew Adam had a class in the morning so no use waking him up for close analysis. Keith ran a nervous hand through his hair. “The hell does this mean?” 

_ ;* _

Now Keith wasn’t that dense, he knew what emojis were. He considered himself the emoji king on the forums, specially when he went ballistic on reviews, but this… he had to overthink this. Because a winky-kissy face could only mean light flirting or playful teasing which sort of fell in the same category as light flirting. 

Did this… thing between him and Lance fall into the category of embarrassing flirts, like Adam had stated, or was Keith way in over his head here?

His phone started ringing. Keith dropped the phone on his face, screeching, “Fuck!” 

On the screen he saw Lance’s number and name glaring brightly at his squinted eyes. “Hello? Keith? You there?” 

“Why are you calling me at this hour?” Keith hissed on the receiver end. “I could have been asleep, you know…” 

Lance chuckled on his end. “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep, and I saw you left me on read.” 

“The conversation was over, so… yeah,” deadpanned Keith. “Why are you calling me? We scheduled to meet tomorrow.” 

“I was bored and couldn’t sleep… and I’m getting kind of antsy to read your chapter.” Lance hummed on his end as if contemplating something, then he said, “Wanna just send it over to me now?” 

“What?!” The hammering under Keith’s chest increased to ten jackhammers pulverising his poor little heart. “Isn’t it better to read it tomorrow after you’ve gotten a good night’s sleep?” 

Lance guffawed at that. 

“What?” said Keith. “What’s wrong with that?” 

“Nothing…” Lance went quiet. Keith could hear him fickling with something, like he was on his computer. Then he made a long, tired sigh. “I just can’t remember the last time I’ve had a good night’s sleep.” 

“Tell me about it.” Keith hated sleeping. He’d rather spend the time reading or writing to be completely honest and forget about… yeah, no, not important. 

He heard a series of clicking on Lance’s end of the phone. “Are you writing?” Keith asked. 

Lance made a murmuring grunt. “Like I said, I can’t sleep, so I try to get some writing in when I can. I feel most elated and, I don’t wanna say  _ inspired _ , but more awake at night to write something.” 

Keith felt the same way. Often he felt that most of a story came to life when he woke up at 3am, but the next day when he reread his writing, half of it usually didn’t make any sense and he’d have to rewrite the whole scene anyways. 

A smile tugged besmusingly along Keith’s lips. “Same. I get so motivated when I wake up in the middle of night, specially if I had a dream about a scene I’ve been pining to write or amazing dialogue finds my brain and I have to write it down or else I’ll forget it forever.” 

“Yes! I know the feeling so well.” Lance said. “And then when I write down everything that I’ve been trying to remember, I finally collapse and the zs capture me in their slumber at long last. All to wake up the next day—” 

“And not understand a single fucking word you wrote,” cut Keith in only to hear Lance agree succintally on his end. 

A brief silence of appreciation waved between their lines. Lance said endearingly, “We get each other, you and I, Keith.” 

“How so?” Curiosity revealed itself hard to stifle. Lance’s words roped Keith in. He waited patiently. 

It was as if he could picture Lance smirking. “We’re writers,” he said, so final. “This is how writers feel. How they believe. This is their way. Our way.” 

Man, he had got to stop being so lyrical or else Keith was going to explode. His dark eyes wandered back to his favorite shelf. All the words written in those four books; all the effort he put into that prose, the love, yet alone the passion he put into those stories. 

Could Keith say he felt jealous? A smidge, perhaps. 

Longingly, Keith thought about his own stories, his own writing style, his characters. Did they inherit the depth he wanted them to have? Was his writing good enough to be read by others? He never did post his fanfictions online, too afraid of the feedback. Constructive criticism he knew he could tackle but incoming a troll who could bash out on everything wrong about his story, or that he’d plagiarized someone else’s or that his writing sucked; nope, Keith’s heart would go dark and writing wouldn’t find the light again for a long time. Maybe. Most definitely. 

Now that he thought about it. Perhaps that was why he had never encountered the gruesome slow death of writer’s block. No one had had the chance to frighten him. How in the world was he going to take on a publishing company, let alone an editor when that time came? If it ever did, of course. 

“Hello? Keith? Earth to Keith! Are you alive, did you fall asleep? Keith. Keith.” 

“Will you shut up for two minutes, please.” 

Lance didn’t sound fully amused on his end. “I did shut up for about five minutes, thank you very much. You were the one who zoned out on me. Something eating you?” 

_ Yes _ . “No.” 

“Okay, don’t tell me. But can you send me over your chapter, I really, really wanna read it!” The felicity in Lance’s voice made it hard for Keith to frown. 

He ran his fingers through his hair again, twirling a lock around his finger, wondering if he should do as proposed. The first chapter lay open on his laptop now, the underside of his machine all warm and hissing up a storm; it was an old laptop. “I dunno. Can I go to sleep when you get it?” 

“Aw, that’s no fun. Don’t you want a live reaction?” 

Surprisingly, he did. “I have an idea.” 

“One that’s better than sending your chapter to me,” Lance said sarcastically on his end. The tone of his voice indicated that now Keith had roped him in. 

Keith smiled. “How about we meet up right now?” 


	17. Chapter 17

Froyo at 1am was the shit. 

Keith had learned a new thing about Lance. He was a vanilla guy. That didn’t at all denote that he was plain or basic or anything, just that he tended to be more… habituary. He had learned that Lance liked to stay within comfort zone with the things he ate, although that didn’t help the case of wanting to impulsively sign up for a culinary course, but hey. 

The fruity flavors fell more into Keith’s favor. He loved mango passion fruit with a dollop of strawberry glaze burying his yo. 

“So, you do this often?” Lance said, spooning into his vanilla bean topped with mini caramels. 

Delicious, frozen yoghurt tickled his throat, Keith said as he swallowed, “How do you think that?” 

The corner of Lance’s lip twitched. “Easy. The cashier knew your order before you even began to recite it. Guess we’re the same there too. We both don’t like change, or experimenting with our food, at least? Who do you have middle of the night froyos with, a boyfriend?” 

That was a mouthful, thought Keith. Before he could even think about a comprehensible answer, he made a once-over Lance, he couldn’t help it, he was sitting right in front of him devouring his froyo. 

He looked awkwardly presentable at 1am. No slacks or knitted sweater vest, but he did sport the same outfit as Keith almost: gray sweats that complimented his long frame and a black hoodie. A getup Keith never thought he’d see a successful author wearing. 

“Well, Keith? You’re going awol on me again. What’s going on in that noggin’ of yours?” Lance hummed copiously. “Boyfriend, no boyfriend? Should I be worried?” Lance gripped his chair, craning his entire body as if on the lookout for Keith’s imaginary boyfriend stalking alarmingly through the door to tell Lance to keep away from him. 

Keith couldn’t do anything but laugh. He choked a little on his froyo, feeling an icing sting to his teeth, but Lance’s little show had him snorting. “Relax, Lance. There’s no boyfriend.” 

“Single as a pringle, like me then,” Lance said, scraping the remains of his froyo. A little frown deepened on his lips, and Keith hopped out of his chair with tickling cheeks and walked to the cashier. 

He came back with a brand new vanilla froyo in his hand, placing it in front of Lance. “My treat, this time,” Keith said. 

Lance made an incredulous, small gasp. “Keith, you didn’t have to. I wasn’t that obvious, was I?” 

“You were.” Keith snickered, and let the single as a pringle comment slide. He didn’t know what to make of Lance commenting on their romantic lives, but guess when they were writing a romance story and that they’d be spending the next two and half months together, the subject matter was bound to come up at one point. 

To save his skin from anymore boyfriendery talk, Keith pulled out his laptop and urged Lance to do the same. Taking the hint, Lance stuck his spoon in his mouth, sliding his own laptop out of his satchel. He was saying something but his words came out all muffled through the spoon. 

Keith knitted his brows. 

Spitting the spoon out, Lance had a twinkle in those blue eyes—now looking clearer than the waters in the Bahamas—and said, “You gonna send me the chapter?” His hands made a fast yet soundless clapping motion. Sort of like a  _ yay me  _ gesture. Adam’s, _ Is he cute? _ comment blared like a siren in Keith’s mind. 

“Hold your horses. Where do I send it?” He cocked a mysterious brow now, wondering if Lance would give him a formal email address, one linked to his author career, or a personal one, one that could maybe lead him nonetheless to his secret author career. 

Why did he care though? It’s not like a simple email address was going to reveal anything, or help support his case if Lance found out Keith knew about him. 

With his phone in his hand, Lance said low, “Just send it to me on Messenger. Here, I’ll friend you.” 

A notification dinged on Keith’s phone at the same time his desktop version pinging him a new friend request. He clicked on the request which led him to Lance’s profile. Nothing indicated that he was an author of some sort, just that he had studied at Altea—surprisingly—and that he was employed at a Garrett H. Books. 

_ Bingo. _

“You work at a publishing company?” Keith asked casually, trying hard to suppress his wicked beating heart. The dregs of his froyo had melted to a puddle in his cup, but he didn’t mind, he had found a clue. “Or some kind of printing company, maybe? Garrett H. Books.” He enunciated the company’s name slowly as if he had never heard of it before. 

Teemingly frazzled by Keith’s question, Lance fidgeted in his seat, playing with the strings of his hoodie and chuckling nervously. “I—I guess I do.” He cleared his throat, obviously trying to hide his identity. “My best friend owns the company, her husband and family gave me a job while I’m on the hunt for something more solid. I edit some manuscripts from time to time, or have a look at final drafts before they’re deemed quality enough to publish.” 

Saved his own skin there, huh. Keith smirked at Lance as though he knew he was hiding something. “Cool. Maybe you can give me a tour there one day. I’d also like to meet this best friend of yours.” Keith burned his gaze into his laptop, skimming his written text over and over again to avoid Lance’s reaction to that. 

He heard Lance murmur a  _ ‘sure thing’ _ but it did not sound wholly believable. As suspected, Lance changed the subject, drastically. “Let’s have a look at your chapter,” he said, clicking around on his own laptop. 

The document Keith sent him blew up on Lance’s screen and Keith could see his writing scattered in Times New Roman font sentences and choppy paragraphs and cheesy dialogues now in front of Lance. Saying he was nervous would be an understatement; he felt overwhelmed, like he was close to drowning and needed air. 

“I’ll just head outside for a few minutes, it’s kinda stuffy in here,” said Keith, pointing to the exit. 

Lance cocked a thin brow, flipping his floppy brown hair away from his face. “Come on, mullet. I’m sure it’s not that bad. Positive that it’s better than what I can produce right now,” he admitted. 

“Because of your writer’s block?” Keith stood holding his chair, peering down at Lance reading his chapter. 

No answer at first from Lance. But then, after he finished reading a paragraph, Keith could see it in the way his blue eyes trailed along the screen, he said, “Something in the like. My writing game has, to admit since I promised I’d bring my a-game to you, become considerably lacking and insufficient. Whenever I forcefully attempt to jot down something remotely coherent on a document, I end up furiously hating it. So, so much. That sometimes I almost want to throw my computer at a wall.” 

“Explains why you signed up for the course,” Keith resolved with a crooked grin, although he had surmised this equation earlier, before Lance admitted to his writer’s block. Since Lance hadn’t published in a few years, compared to how frequent his previous books came out, he knew something must have been tampering with Lance’s writing juice. 

Lance didn’t answer him. He went back to reading Keith’s chapter, throwing a lazy hand in his face. “Go get some fresh air. I’ll have a few comments ready when you get back.” 

A few comments ready. Sparks surged through Keith’s throat, tightening his nerves even more. He headed out, but not without a second glance at Lance fully focused on reading Keith’s chapter. He noticed that his long, slender fingers started typing the comments he promised him. Another pricking wave shot through Keith and he opened the door to step outside, breathed in the fresh air, and hoped for the best.


	18. Chapter 18

Lance’s expression was unreadable. 

When Keith went back inside the froyo shop and plopped down next to Lance, who was still in a mortician’s focus on Keith’s document; his partner retracted his fingers from the keyboard, slid the laptop to Keith, leaned back in his chair folding his arms and draped a long leg covering his other thigh. “How do you want this to go down?” he then asked Keith all coolly. 

“Uh—” Keith was rendered speechless. More like some mythical, invisible demon or creature had their hands wrapped around his precious throat, making it difficult to form words at the moment.

How did he want this to go down? Should Lance lay it flat out to him verbally, or would it be wiser to just get lost in his comments. This was the first time—besides Shiro or Adam—someone ever gave him feedback on his personal writing. 

He swiped a curious glance at the side margin of his document. A plethora of comments had been made, but Keith had no idea if they were loaded with positivity or negativity—or were just downright criticisms on his writing, the story, the plot or even how he wrote the characters. 

“You’re so nervous!” Lance slapped Keith’s back, snickering to lighten the suffocating mood floating around Keith’s dispersing brain. “Nothing to worry about, mullet. We’re supposed to be a team, ey? I can say before you head into my comment-section, that I think it’s a great start to our story.” 

Keith’s heart skipped a beat. He swung his face to Lance, unquestionable that there were stars shining in his dark eyes. A compliment. Made by his favorite author. “You think?” he asked, trying so hard to tone down the excitement in his voice without exposing his inner fanboy. 

A smile crept along Lance’s lips. They were full and defined, Keith noticed; bright pink when contrasted with his Latinx-tanned complexion. Keith smacked his lips at the sudden sentiment, not hearing what Lance had said in return. 

“Sorry?” Keith said, throwing a hand to his neck, rubbing it nervously. “I didn’t catch what you said. No one has ever complimented my writing before. The world around me sort of turned into water.” 

“I thought I’d prepare you, because I do have a lot of constructive criticism waiting for ya,” replied Lance, pointing out which comments were his constructive criticisms, which were suggestions for edits, which were common errors in writing and grammar and finally all the positive squealing—his words—where he couldn’t hold back on the cuteness overload or which quotes he wanted stitched on his eyelids. Yes, that was a genuine comment and declaration made by him. 

Behind them, Keith heard the clerk say, “Yo, Keith, we’re closing up soon. It’s almost 3am, maybe consider getting some shut eye, or—” The clerk, Ryan, jumped his brown eyes from Keith to Lance, then smirked, “Find a nice motel nearby.” 

Keith’s face went up in flames. “Ry—” 

“That’s not a bad idea.” He heard Lance suddenly reply to Ryan.

An atom bomb went off in Keith. “We can’t—We’re not—” He tried to sway Ryan away from the fact that him and Lance were nothing to each other. Nothing other than writing partners—fanboy and author. “Oh my God,” he muttered under his breath. 

Lance stood up, packed his laptop and tapped Keith’s shoulder. “You coming?” 

“To a motel?!” Keith hissed, his body still heated—his entire self the embodiment of tropey character flusteredness. 

“Uh—why not? Unless you wanna go back to your place?” 

“Why not yours?” Keith prompted hotly. He knew one thing for sure, and that was that they were not going to Lance’s place. Unless he had nothing to hide. 

Lance slid his lips to the side, slitting his blue eyes. A virring noise escaped him. They left the froyo place, waving Ryan goodbye and fixed their gazes on the empty, dark street. It had rained since Keith had taken some much needed fresh air earlier, the pavement glistening and reflecting the streetlights’ illumination. The air was crisp and it even smelled like rain, a somber, subtle touch to calm Keith’s sprinting vessels. 

“My place…” Lance started, running a hand through his floppy hair. He sighed disheartenedly. “We can’t—She—I’m sorry, Keith. It’s a bad time right now. How about that motel, or your place?” 

Adam’s smug-ass grin flashed before Keith. He shook his head dismissively. “Nope. My place is a no-go, too. Motel it is, I guess. Or a 24/7 library?” Keith really didn’t want to be in the same room as Lance where one could find a comfy bed or a tempting hot shower. Imagine if Lance saw his sleeping face or if he dreamt about his books and said something in his sleep. The horror. 

“A library might work, but I am getting kind of tired and I really don’t wanna go back home right now,” said Lance, scrolling through his phone. “I also wanna work on your chapter, I’m super excited about it.” 

The way Lance showed how super excited he was had Keith towed down. “How about,” Keith started, glancing over Lance’s shoulder. He was searching on his phone for the closest, most affordable motel nearby, Keith hitched, “Uh—we go to that motel, but I leave when we finish our chapter, and you get a good night’s sleep, or morning sleep.” 

“That could work, too. Oh! I found one, and it’s just down the road. Come on.” Lance gripped Keith’s leather jacket, dragging him enthusiastically towards the motel. 

How was this not something to have second thoughts about? Who really was Lance? For every meeting with him, Keith learned something new, and it was, to be honest, kind of exciting. 

  
  



	19. Chapter 19

Soft morning light broke through the curtains. 

His phone vibrated under his belly. “Hello? Keith? Where the hell are you, I’ve been sending you texts non-stop. You weren’t in your bed this morning, and your jacket was gone along with your boots. When did you head out?” 

Keith had to lick away the sleep in his mouth. He had not brushed his teeth, he regarded from the layer of plaque on his teeth and the taste of death itself still lingering on his tongue and in the back of his throat. Waking up and concocting an excuse to Adam, he pulled himself up from the bed he lay in, looking around. “I—went out last night.” 

“Out? Last night? I heard you in your room around midnight last night, when did you leave?” 

His head swarmed him with memories of the night. “I met with my writing partner at Ryan’s froyo. He wanted to go through my chapter. He’s so pushy, that I relented and met up with him.” 

“Oh,” mused Adam, “The cute one, Lance McClain. Interesting. But that doesn’t tell me where you are now.” 

Not even Keith knew where he was right now. He flitted a quick gaze from the bed he was dipping into, to the vanity in front of him, the small flat screen tv, a long desk embedded with the panelled wall with complimentary instant coffees and tea bags situated next to a kettle. His eyes grew wide once it had been acknowledged. 

The motel. 

Heart lodged in his throat, he turned to his side only to reveal that Lance… wasn’t there. Had he left? When did he leave? Keith went quiet for a second, holding his hand over the mic on his phone, listening in for his partner, but nothing. His things were here, he saw—satchel leaned against the small table, Lance’s computer resting on the surface—the door swung open. “I got bagels,” Lance said loud and proud emerging from the outside world. 

“Call you back,” Keith hastily said on the phone and hung up before Adam could reply with a single sounding consonant. “Lance? What the—We fell asleep?” 

Lance gave him a pointed look, placing the bagel bag and tray of coffees next to his laptop. “That’s what you do in a motel, mullet. Sorry, but I don’t kiss on the first date.” He snickered lightly then plopped down in the chair, urging for Keith to join him.

Warily, Keith trudged out of the bed looking for his shirt. He patted down his body, sighing in relief that he was wearing his other clothes. “We didn’t—” he asked Lance carefully, standing behind his chosen vacant chair. 

The moment those two words left him, Lance released a storm. His fist hit the table as he held on his stomach with his other hand trying to keep his lungs functioning from laughing too hard. “Oh, Keith. We’ve known each other, what? About a week. I even told you that I don’t kiss on the first date.” 

So, did this count as a date? 

“Also,” Lance continued, reading Keith’s mortified gaze, “Notice how there are  _ two _ beds.” He tilted his head to the side waiting for Keith to notice the two twin-beds. “Besides, once we finished your chapter last night, the first thing you did was hit your head on the pillow and snore louder than a Snorlax.” 

“I—” Of course, Keith had jumped to conclusions, as he always did. _ Think before you speak _ , he kicked his brain. Or, look twice before you speak. Closing his eyes into a painful pinch, he held the bridge of his nose saying, “Sorry, I didn’t think. I’m so exhausted.” 

“You’re welcome,” said Lance, and when Keith opened his eyes he was met with a blue wink. “And just to note, if you and I ever end up in one of these… ‘only one bed tropes’, you have nothing to worry about _ at all _ .” Lance started fidgeting, his complexion growing a nuance darker. “Uh—” he spluttered and Keith started blinking wondering what had suddenly happened. “I didn’t mean it like that, I think you’re—Can we talk about something else before this gets ten times awkward?” 

Keith took the vacant chair opposite Lance, twirled it and plopped down already digging into the bagels and coffee Lance had brought. “Sure thing,” Keith said, smiling with half his cheek stuffed with bagel and cream cheese. He washed it down with a splash of lukewarm coffee, which didn’t taste as good as the one at the bookstore. 

“Great, so…” Seemed Lance was drained of conversation juice. 

“What are you doing today, writing?” Keith shot in, finishing off the bagel and pulling a new one out from the bag, he felt famished for some reason. 

Racking his memory of last night before he catapulted into a deep slumber, Keith remembered that they had fixed all of his ‘mistakes’; Lance called them ‘little darlings’ because, you know,  _ kill your darlings  _ was a term often used within the writing community. He rewrote a few key scenes and chose to save Lance’s fanboy comments. Something Keith was going to print out the moment he got home and have them framed on his walls since he couldn't get them tattooed on his own eyelids. He could, but, like… ouch? 

Lance didn’t touch his bagel. Although he did nurse his coffee, blue eyes looking blasé and mind wandering a road Keith imagined were empty. “Lance?” 

“Yeah?” Lance snapped into existence. “Yes. I guess I should get started on my chapter, huh?” 

Keith eyed him worriedly. “You worried about your writer’s block?” 

“So worried.” Lance nodded. “It’s just that…” he said, tapping into what could be plaguing him. An exhale left him, clearly fazed out by the last 5 minutes. “I haven’t been able to write anything solid for a while.” 

“You still owe me a secret, Lance,” said Keith. He knew Lance wouldn’t share any of his writing if he asked politely, even if he got on his knees and begged. 

Lance quirked into a cheeky grin. “Oh yeah? Fine.” 

The bagels were all gone, the coffee drained leaving behind a few droplets. The sun outside still shone with its creamy light through the window soon transitioning to an autumnal dusk. Keith played with the coffee cup, asking, “ _ Who _ inspires you?” Keith choked. “Uhm, I mean… you said earlier that new experiences inspire you, but I was just wondering  _ who _ might also… inspire… uh, you.” 

When Keith had previously been asked the question by Lance, he knew instantly who inspired him, but it was an answer too risky to say out loud. But for Lance, perhaps it wouldn’t be that hard, and that saying this out loud could help set him back on his tracks. 

He shook his head, his cheeky grin faltering to something more twisted and stubborn. Lance planted both hands in his hair, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I—I have no idea, who.  _ Who? _ Does the world count as an individual? Hope?” Everything froze on him, like he thought about something, or someone. Then he unfroze, running his fingers back through his hair, something Keith noticed he did when nervous. “Inspiration is hard to come by when you’re in a writer’s block, Keith. I’m trying, hard, and I was hoping this writer’s course would be my saving grace.” 

_ I’ll be your saving grace. _ Keith shook away the thought, he couldn’t romanticize this relationship. Specially not dive into a rabbit hole where he thought that Lance might… need him. They were two individuals with a common passion, one more than the other, maybe. 

Regardless, he still wanted to help Lance. 

Keith sounded out an amused breath, never breaking character. “How about I take you to where I find inspiration.” 


	20. Chapter 20

They had wandered into a new endeavor. 

“Whoop!” Lance scooted past Keith on the electric scooters they rented through an app Keith had downloaded a long time ago. 

Keith loved renting electric scooters, it got him places. It took him to places that inspired him. 

As they scooted, almost turning their gliding rides to a full on race, Keith spotted their destination beyond them in the horizon, dead ahead. 

It wasn’t that late, around afternoon, almost close to dinnertime. Before they left the motel, they agreed on ordering lunch from another handy app on Keith’s phone, having Panda Express delivered to their door. God, if food was considered an inspiration, then Keith’s portion of honey sesame chicken breast could help him write heaps of best-selling novels. 

With a dreamy look sporting on his face, he noticed Lance cocking a sly brow at him. “What?” 

“Nothing. You look like you were thinking about something… or might I ask, someone?” Lance waggled his squiggling brows.

Caught red-faced, Keith was hoping the wind whipping past them as they scooted down the road would be enough blame for his sudden heated complexion. “Shut up! I was thinking about our lunch.”

“Oh, yeah.” Lance mirrored Keith’s dreamy expression. “Now I miss our lunch. Damn, Panda Express. How do they do it?” 

“Right.” Keith chuckled, then scooted past Lance at a zooming speed. 

Skidding his scooter to a halt, they’d reached their destination. He parked his scooter at the end of a long port. Out beyond the seaside, the sun was close to dipping low as they were well deep into October almost welcoming the jingle jangles of November. Also known as Fake December, because everyone would already start putting up their Christmas decor and sing jolly tunes till their neighbors threatened to choke them on eggnog. 

Oh, the holidays. Keith loved Christmas. The holiday usually honed in on the inspiration he needed to finish off either the last segment of a long on-going fic he’d been writing. Or, give him cutesy ideas for fluffy, romantic one-shots involving his favorite characters from.. well, Lance’s books. 

Lance hit the breaks, standing next to Keith at the end of the pier. Weirdly, this scene reminded Keith of the one at the end of Lance’s most current release. _Shit._ If only Keith had the guts, he’d straight out ask Lance what thoughts went through his mind when he wrote the final scene by the pier. What inspired him to have Daniel finally realize his feelings for his best friend Sable, and how in the world did he have the audacity to end the story on a cliff-hanger!

“What’s eating you, mullet?” Keith twerked a corner lip when he heard Lance ask the common phrase. Lance made a loud sigh, escaping him into the cold air as he took in the beautiful sunset before them. 

So picturesque. It was as if the colors around the sun dipping low to sleep had been ripped out of the book Lance wrote. Swirls of purples and pinks, intermingled beautifully with the oranges and yellow hues. Keith felt like writing staring at the replica of Lance’s scene. 

“So, how about that inspiration you promised me,” said Lance this time, pulling Keith out of his not-so-subtle trance. 

Out far in the ocean, he could spot a lighthouse. Its light in motion, circling the wading body of water and the grass behind the hill it stood on. Breaking out of concentration, Keith answered his writing partner, “I never promised anything, Lance. I just said I’d take you to where I find inspiration.” He turned to capture Lance staring at the same spot as him, the lighthouse. Its white shining light reflected in the heart of Lance’s blue eyes, causing a sudden storm ripping in Keith’s gut. _Why’d he have to be cute?_

“And this is it?” Lance said. “The docks?” 

Keith nodded. “Of course, it’s more than that. It’s where I read this one book and decided I wanted to become an author myself… or well—” Bashfully, he felt a shyness creeping hot along his neck. How much dare he share with Lance, it was his book he was talking about. Unless he asked about it, of course. 

“Which book did you read?” Lance asked the anticipated question. Well, Keith did create an open path for it. 

How to save himself out of this one? “Er—” He hesitated, keeping his dark eyes locked on the light painting ominous wavy streams in the ocean. The sun had gone down entirely, taking with it its beautiful scheme of inspiration. “It’s kind of private. I’d rather not blurt it out. I like keeping that book dear to me, and only me.” 

“Damn. That’s gotta be one hell of a book.” Lance smiled. 

Throwing a hand to the nape of his neck, and keeping his other balancing the parked scooter, Keith chuckled nervously. “Yeah. It really is.” 

Startling him, Lance heaved out an exasperated loud noise, scaring away a flock of seagulls. “Now I really wanna know what book you read. I’m desperate for that injection of inspiration, Mullet. And seeing your face when you mentioned it, I bet you wanna write right now.” Lance smirked. “No pun intended.” 

“What pun?” Keith smirked in return. “But yeah. I actually do really wanna write. Whenever I go here, I take in all of my surroundings: The crashing waves, the salt in the air tickling my nose, the romantic ambiance the lighthouse in the distance gives off, and when you close your eyes and just listen, you can hear the chirps of the birds on their way to a warmer destination, giving me, the writer, a longing wish to escape as well.” 

When Keith turned to look at Lance, he saw he had his eyes closed, probably picturing exactly what Keith had described. Wind whipped at his brown, floppy hair, his cheeks were tapped with a pinch of cold looking dusty pink and his mouth—

“Oh shit!” Keith scrambled away as fast as he could before Lance could open his eyes. 

His skin had jumped off his bones. He had been deceived by his own words, staring so intently at Lance—at his mouth—thinking about him, about his romantic writing and then pictured himself in Daniel’s position, except Keith saw for himself that Sable was there, right next to him, in the familiar shape of… Lance. 

Lance opened his eyes, furrowing a brow, confused by Keith’s sudden jumpy state. “Uh—Mullet? You okay, you look like you saw a ghost?” His dark skin paled. “Shit! Did you see a ghost! Don’t let it eat me!” 

“Eat you? Ghosts don’t eat, you idiot.” Keith shoved his shoulder lightly into Lance, hoping that everything that just happened evaporated into the embarrassing depths of the forgotten past. “Who would have thought Mr. Big Shot writer was so afraid of ghosts,” cooed Keith. 

“Shut it, you.” Lance crept into a teasing grin, shoving his shoulder back into Keith, with a little more force. “You were the one who didn’t want to write anything gory or horror. Maybe you’re the scaredy pants here.” 

“Let’s agree we both are,” said Keith and Lance agreed with a firm nod and a grunt. “So, do you feel inspired?” 

Thinking back to how Lance looked as he listed his scene, he hoped for a positive answer. Lance fickled with his scooter, booting it up. A rumble growled from the motor, and he swerved with a hard u-turn, facing the road. “How about another race, and I’ll tell you.” He winked, blue flashing in the deep dark air. 

Keith booted up his own scooter, another rumble ripping through the night. “You’re on.” 


	21. Chapter 21

Another week passed, and Lance still hadn’t sent his chapter. 

Keith dragged out a loud groan, mercilessly. 

“What’s the problem, Keith?” Adam handed him his morning coffee; a venti-sized cup filled to the brim with foaming steamed milk and a smoky blend of his dark-roast hazelnut creamer. He stared hard at the creamer blending in with his black coffee. “Boy trouble?” 

He took a long sip, his tongue dancing happily at the sweet taste of his coffee. “Don’t you know it.” 

Adam chuckled, seating himself next to Keith by the kitchen table, taking a sip of his own boring black coffee, sans creamer and steamy, foamy milk. “Who would have thought I’d play Mr. Matchmaker here.” He gave Keith that stupid glint in his hazel eyes and that shit-eating grin of his. 

“Woah, woah, woah—” Keith slammed his clear Starbucks tumbler on the table surface. “Who said anything about matchmaking? I  _ am _ having boy trouble. Lance is a boy, and I am having trouble with him.” A sigh poured out of him with his coffee-infused breath. “He hasn’t sent me his chapter, and it’s been a week! I want to read it, so bad!” In pain, he took another long sip of his coffee. 

They hadn’t been able to meet at all the past week because Lance needed time to focus on the chapter. He promised Keith he’d write a good one, one that would knock his socks off. Keith didn’t have any doubt in him, none at all. More likely, he had all the belief that Lance’s chapter would be able to knock both his socks and his trousers off, maybe even his t-shirt and jacket. 

The first day of Lance’s focus-game had passed, and Keith was positive Lance had gotten a good start on the second chapter. Of course, Keith being the nosy spirit that he is, he had sent Lance a text asking if he had started. All Lance sent in reply was a thumbs up emoji. The next day after that, Keith nagged him again asking how far along he had come now; another emoji, this one a winky face emoji. Keith wanted to throw his phone in Lance’s face. 

Yesterday, Lance called him, said he had a breakthrough and that he could finally start on the chapter. Keith threw his phone across his room, then apologized on the other end and told Lance he threw his phone in a rage and that he better have the chapter of the century the day after. 

And now it was the day after—the morning after to be precise—and still no chapter. Keith was this close to shaving off the rest of his hair. Could this be deprivation? Was he just deprived of reading something new by his favorite author? Or did he genuinely care about their story and where Lance had plans to continue on from the end of Keith’s chapter? 

He bonked his forehead on the table, sliding to his cheek. The surface was cold. He could smell the tempting fumes of his sweet coffee, wishing he had a long straw. 

“Cheer up, kiddo. If Lance said he’d get you that chapter by today, I’m sure he will.” 

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get that,” said Adam. 

While Adam went to see who it was, Keith’s cheek still felt cold to the touch, but he refused to move. He won’t move a single muscle until he got Lance’s—something smacked on the table surface in front of him. A stack of papers. 

Keith slid up from the table and to his greatest horror—“Lance!” he hitched, a dreading notion of surprise washing over him. 

Standing next to his seat, Lance stood there wearing another of his author outfits: Sweater vest and cotton shirt, slacks and those brown shoes, and his hair looked… well kept. Like he had tousled his floppy hair into swirls of pretty curls. “What, what, what are you—” 

“You never told me that you lived with Adam!” Lance cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Professor Wright!” He then proceeded to shout. His hands were flailing in the air, but they lowered the moment Adam came into the kitchen and sat down opposite Keith, urging for Lance to take a seat next to him. 

“So you’re the famous Lance McClain,” Adam booted up the conversation, winking a fast one at Keith. He was so dead, thought Keith, gritting his teeth. “You’re the one who asked me a few questions during the first seminar. How’s everything going? Is Keith being difficult, want me to discipline him.” Another of Adam’s famous, harrowing chuckles boomed out of him. 

He was so, so dead.

Lance looked somewhat awestruck. Keith had no idea if Lance knew about Adam before the writing course, but he still had that dumbfounded look slashed across his tan face. “No, no. If anything, I guess I’m the one giving Keith a hard time,” Lance said, responding to Adam's chuckle with his own. Though a bit more light-hearted. 

It hadn’t sunk in until now, but Lance—holy moly, O.M.G.—but L.M. Taylor was in Keith’s house.  _ This is bad. This is bad. This is sooo bad.  _ “How did you find out where I lived?” Keith eyed him suspiciously. 

A phone found Keith’s vision. “Duh—” said Lance, “Through our dear old friend, Mr. Google. I just searched your name up and you were the only one in the area and presto—” He made a flamboyant gesture with his hands. “I found out where you lived. Thought I’d do the courtesy of popping by with my chapter and we could through it together like we did with yours at the motel.” 

Keith made quick eyes at Adam, shooting them wide and silently pleading for him to shut up about the motel. No retorts, no remarks, and definitely don’t spill any beans about Keith thinking that Lance was cute. If anything, Lance already knew he was cute from his cheeky personality that Keith had been delightedly acquainted with. 

“Sounds like a great idea, Lance,” Adam shot in, sending Keith his stupid grin. “How about I put on a fresh pot of coffee and the two of you can coop up in Keith’s room all day. You won’t even know I was here.” 

“No!” Keith shot up from his chair, slamming the table; the pile of papers elevating from the impact.

Adam and Lance shared horrified, stricken looks. 

“I mean—” Keith sputtered, his neck building up bullets of sweat, “just give me five minutes to clean my room, it looks like a hurricane came in and spit up. Please, just five minutes.” He held up five fingers, then rushed out the kitchen sending one well-known finger at Adam. 


	22. Chapter 22

This day had become a bleeding  _ nightmare _ .

Not only had Keith not once thought about the possibility of Lance stopping by his house, but to be invited  _ inside _ , and now he was minutes from being invited, again, into Keith’s  _ room _ . 

Lord help him. 

Priorities first. His books. If Lance saw his bookshelves—which, of course, he would—then he’d be found out on the spot. The questions would pour in. Keith would feel ashamed. Well, in hindsight, it depended mostly on if Lance would have admitted to having written the books, to which Keith had all the confidence that he wouldn’t. You know, given his decision to use a pen-name and all. 

_ What is he hiding? Why the anonymity?  _

Keith ruefully shook his head, no time to ask those kinds of questions. He had books to hide, and—he made a brief stare in the mirror. “Shit.” He looked and felt like shit. Couldn’t Adam have given him any fair warning, enough for him to have hopped in the shower at least and found a decent set of clothes? 

During go-time, Keith mutilated his favorite bookshelf, feeling his limbs tearing apart in pain when he had to dissect the precious time he had used to make this one shelf look perfect. He tore down merch prints, buttons, bookmarks. Keith wanted to weep. 

Now mutilated and with Keith’s heart shattered by the look of his now empty shelf, he cast his copies of Lance’s books into his closet, no time to stack them nicely in a corner, just heave-ho and hope Lance didn’t want a full room tour.

Now for his outfit. 

He had nothing to wear. Nothing that could match up to Lance’s usual casual but fancy-casual appearance. Hidden under a pile of black clothes, he fished out his favorite pair of ripped jeans, jumping into their tightness, and hanging on his desk chair, his red-checkered flannel, unwashed, of course. Yeah, he dressed emo, but it was a style he felt comfortable with and knew he looked good in. 

One last look in the mirror and then doubling over his knees, he let out an exasperated, yet quite nerve-racking, breath. 

Someone knocked on his door. Keith jumped from his toes with a screech. 

“Keith?” It was Lance’s muffled voice from the other side of his door. “It’s been 5 minutes. Actually it’s been 10, but I’m not counting minutes here or anything. Can I come in now?” 

Grimacing, Keith replied, “Yeah!” 

The door opened, though cautiously. “Am I allowed into thy chambers, master?” Lance said in a bad British accent and goblin-esque voice. 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Keith returned in his best posh British accent, waving his hand in circles to showcase his room to Lance. 

They both snickered. 

Lance was holding his satchel close to his person, wondering where he could set his computer. He made a once-over Keith’s room. “So… this is your room. Books! I see books, and merch—vinyls, swab.” He nodded in approval. “Can I just put my laptop on your desk?” 

“We can work on my bed,” Keith said, cringing. 

Luckily Lance hadn’t noticed his scrunched face, happily swinging off his satchel and placing his laptop on Keith’s bed. Once the laptop found a spot, placed nicely at the edge of Keith’s bedspread, Lance made a beeline to his shelves, as he had anticipated. 

A hum of curiosity strung out from Lance’s throat as he perused Keith’s bookshelves. He stood lean and tall, looking really nice in those beige-colored khakis. Keith shouldn’t be looking, but in his defence, he had nowhere else to look. Per se. He kept looking as Lance’s face scanned each and every title Keith owned. 

Lance pulled out a title, causing Keith’s heart to hammer. Did he forget one? It was the book Lance had bought him, his first published:  _ Dive to the Bottom with Me _ . He waved the book at Keith. Keith threw his invasive eyes away from Lance’s bottoms. “You read it yet?” 

“Persistent much?” Keith shot back, quirking a thick black brow at his partner.

The book continued to wave in the air, with more force this time. “I think it’s a great read, and I would love to have heard your opinions on it.” He smiled. 

Oh, this boy would for sure like Keith’s opinion, huh? 

Clearly fishing for praise on his own work, Keith shook his head, hopping into his bed and seating himself comfortably against his mountain of pillows. Yes, he was a pillow guy. He liked being comfortable at all times. “Sorry, I promise I’ll read it when I get the time.” 

Lance guffawed. “But you had all week to read while I wrote my chapter!” 

“No complaining, little goblin. I was busy.” Keith eyed Lance but found it hard to keep his lips stern. 

With a sigh, Lance turned around crouching his body and twisting his face to resemble a goblin slave. “Why master, you have shamed me. I, who had bought you that book out of the kindness of my heart. Please, one day, read the book, it would please a young goblin’s poor heart.” 

That did it. Keith broke out into a laughing fit, slamming a fist on his bed. “Sorry, Lance. But that imitation was priceless.” He fished out his phone. “I need to film this, do it again.” 

Lance hopped into Keith’s bed, grabbing a pillow and smacking it in Keith’s face. “Cute. But no,” he said, his dimples showing. Oh damn, his  _ dimples _ . 

Staring suddenly a little too long at Lance’s smile, Keith noticed that he could have easily written a whole book about those dimples. They would become the death of him sooner or later, he figured. 

“Keith?” 

Startled, Keith whipped his eyes from Lance’s mouth up to his blue eyes. “Yeah?” 

Lance curved his lips again, dimple one and dimple two popping. He shook his head nonchalantly and curled over to fetch his laptop as he said, “Nothing. How about we get to reading my chapter?” 

Warmth protruded from Lance’s hissing laptop. The second he booted it up, it roared to life. On the screen, Keith searched for anything besides the next chapter, even if he was hungry for new writing by his favorite author. 

That’s when it hit him. Hard. In the stomach. Lance McClain—L.M. Taylor—was here, sitting thigh to thigh next to Keith, in his room, on his  _ bed _ . During a moment of epiphany like this, Keith would freak, but he couldn’t, not with Lance mere inches away. 

Trying to contain the chaos in his chest, he perched forward to have a look at Lance’s chapter and to will his beating heart away from heading into overdrive. He read to himself: 

  
  


* * *

_ There was a moment of beating silence. James felt his nerves spike, his eyes locking on the beautiful tarnished boy in front of him. Ainsley had his eyes closed shut, lashes long and furling, cheekbones sunken deep, high and rising, and his pink, plush lips just asking, secretly wanting, for James to put his lips on him.  _

_ A heartbeat, and James leaned in. He slid his lips over Ainsley’s, wet and inviting. Ainsley, with passion erupting from his capture, angled into James’ lips pressing two firm hands to James’ already warm cheeks.  _

_ Their embedded silence terminated. James grew hungry for Ainsley; he tackled his lips with fervor, throwing his hands to the hem of his friend’s shirt and lifting it away heatedly, growing ferocious _ —

_ “James?” Ainsley poked his cheek, awaking him from his very pleasant slumber.  _

* * *

  
  
  


Keith screamed, “No!” He turned swiftly to capture Lance’s now smug face. “It was a dream?! But it got so good!” 

If Keith had been reading this alone in his room, he would have been rolling around in his bed tearing out ear-splitting pterodactyl screeches and Adam would barge in asking what all the ruckus was about and then laugh at Keith’s constant fanboying moments; then Keith would go into full-on fanboy mode and talk non-stop about the scene and how he pictured it all so perfectly in his head and how he too wanted that; so, so,  _ bad. _

He slapped Lance’s shoulder. “You freaking tease! I thought they had gotten together, although it would have been too early.” 

Lance grunted softly in agreement. “It wouldn’t have been the perfect moment for the kiss. I think we need at least one more chapter of mutual pining before it happens. Or, well, that’s solely up to you. You’re next, Mullet.” He slapped Keith back giving him a teasing wink. 

“Damn it,” he mumbled low, Lance snickering in the background. “How—” He found himself grounding out a question he wanted to ask Lance. Ask his favorite author. He could actually ask him things he might have asked him if he ever met him at a convention or a book signing. Now he had his chance. 

“How do you write so well? I know it’s my first time reading your writing—” A big fat lie. “But it was so good. Like I suck ass at writing good kissing scenes. So, tell me, oh fair master,  _ how _ ???” 

There was an adorable glint radiating from the heart of Lance’s blue eyes, reminding Keith of the lighthouse last week. Of when Keith almost—

Lance shrugged. “I don’t know. I just really like to write kissing scenes. Especially the build-up to one. So when I can finally write a kiss, I sort of go all out. I guess… experiences also have been some help. Not that I’ve kissed alot of people, but knowing how to kiss and what happens when two people kiss is good to know.” 

Absorbing every word of advice, Keith felt in need of something to write all this advice down on. Experience, okay. Loving to write those scenes, fine. But Keith too loved to write kissing scenes, but he lacked adornably in tweaking those scenes to make a reader want to hug the pages to their chest and sigh out appreciatively, almost as if they too had finally fallen in love. 

“That one counts as a secret by the way,” said Lance, catching Keith off guard. “So now, I need one from you.” 

Another secret, right. They had been parted for about a week, and, yeah, Keith could admit that he had been deprived of some secret sharing. Fine, this could count as one of Lance’s secrets. What to tell Lance, though? 

He squinted his dark eyes, staring at his shelves. Any guilty pleasures he could share? “You know what, I sort of admitted to being sucky at writing kissing scenes, that has to count as a secret.” 

“Sure, why not. I highly doubt it though,” replied Lance, giving Keith a wink. 

They went back to reading Lance’s chapter; skimming, editing and commenting on it. It was a hell of a chapter, not that Keith had expected anything less by Lance. The chapter captivated him, he had forgotten all about his surroundings, however, from time to time, he would peer over to his peripheral vision and give Lance a brief look. 

Being amazingly unnoticed, Lance too had nice eyelashes, long and furling. Thick. His lips were slightly parted, being all absentminded as he scanned his chapter alongside Keith, his blue, blue eyes flitting side to side reading every word and recreating a scene worthy enough to portrait in his mind.

Keith felt a sudden spark. Unexplainable, but he was losing all autonomy of his body. Completely out of control, his left hand started to wander past both their laps, traveling up to gently place two fingers on Lance’s jawline, turning his partner's face just a short fraction of an inch so that he was facing Keith. 

“Hey,” Lance said low, surprised, his brow furrowing a twitch. 

Saying nothing, Keith leaned in and kissed Lance. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone reading! 
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments in the previous chapter. I see a lot of you guys are comitted. :))   
> This fic is practically finished written, but I like to put out chapters sporadically to build some tension, haha. I love reading comments and seeing what your theories are for further chapters. And yes, every time I post, I'll post two chapters. :) 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading!

This bleeding nightmare had downright morphed into a gory, chain-saw horror flick. 

Keith’s lips were still warm against Lance’s. He had no idea what went on in his mind when he did it. He just wanted to… do it. Kiss Lance. Caught up in the moment, maybe? Talking about kissing scenes must have in some way sparked that ignition of want for inspiration, and by doing so, he needed experience. Per Lance’s advice. 

_ Pull away. Pull. Away!  _ Keith screamed in his mind before it would be too late and Lance would storm out of his room and never come back calling Keith a weirdo and sending a file of complaint about sexual harassment to Adam. 

But to Keith’s surprise, Lance didn’t pull away either. Instead, he briefly leaned in, pressing his own soft, warm lips to Keith’s. Then, a second later, they both, finally, pulled away. 

Breath heavy, Keith immediately went into a defensive. “Holy shit, Lance. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. I promise I’m not that weird.” 

Lance put a finger to Keith’s lips, a smile curtly tugging at his own lips. “Don’t worry about it, Keith. We,  _ err _ , you, were caught up in some kind of moment, no? I mean we were just talking about writing kissing scenes, and I did practically tell you that you needed experience to do so… Or—” 

Engrossed by his words, Keith became all ears, leaning in close, though maybe not too close given the events that had just happened between them. He still hadn’t had the chance to fully comprehend that they had recently shared spit, let alone, give himself an overview if he enjoyed the kiss or not. 

No time to linger, Lance continued, “I can see the appeal… the attraction, but—” 

There’s a but?! “But?” Keith promptly said, his heart beating faster than ever before. 

Lance hummed, but the twinkle in his blue eyes told Keith he had mischievous thoughts. Or so, it was what Keith thought. The light from his ceiling glinted in those blue eyes, creating a sweet harmony of sky-blue and deep-ocean indigo, Keith felt like swimming. Swimming away from this disaster he put them in. 

“I’m sorry, Keith,” said Lance with a solemn expression. His hands were busy tapping the keys on his keyboard, though not pressing down to put any words on his document, mostly fickling around, nervous. “I’m not looking to be in any relationship right now. I—I’m in a bad position as of this moment, and I think us dating would be a bad idea since we’re also writing partners. I think it could affect our product.” 

Not following, Keith’s eyebrows quickly pinched in confusion. “I’m totally lost right now. You think that I—that I like you?!” 

“Don’t you?” Lance’s voice came out in a small whimper, like he had been hurt. “I like you, Keith. I really do. It’s just not—” 

“A good time, I get it.” Keith didn’t mean for his voice to come out so harsh, but his whole mind was spiraling at the moment. He had been caught in a moment, he didn’t think twice about actually developing feelings for his partner. However, he had admitted to Adam he found Lance cute. And, yes, of course, Lance was super cute, just his type, but Lance was _also_ L.M. Taylor. Which practically scared the living daylights out of him. Especially when he had been lying about knowing about Lance’s books and blowing him off about them every time they were brought up.

Curious, nonetheless. “What do you mean that us dating could affect our writing?” asked Keith. 

Lance’s fingers laid still over his keyboard, rubbing up and down along the embedded letters. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just have a feeling that if we got involved it would ruin the mystery of our chapters. If we became emotionally involved our feelings for each other, perhaps, could bleed over to the story itself and then we’d never know how our story could turn out in the end.” 

“But our story is a love story, wouldn’t that just be an advantage?” Keith sat up, inspired all of a sudden. “Like what if we became so in love that our story turned into something amazing!” 

A sweet, melodic laugh escaped Lance; he hid his upturned nose behind his hand. “You’re cute, Keith. But I still stand with my reasons. Hope that’s okay?” 

“Of course,” replied Keith, still kind of mauled by Lance’s slipping compliment. “Hey.” Daringly, Keith put a hand on Lance’s shoulder. If he felt like it, he could tug on it and close the gap between their lips again. Not that Keith was thinking that, until now, that is. “Let’s write one hell of a story.” 

“We’re already doing that!” Lance exclaimed, his smile, one that was so small and sweet, now fully bloomed wide like a beautiful sunflower. 

Jesus, Keith was done for. 

Later, after spending hours on perfecting Lance’s—in Keith’s opinion—already perfect chapter. Keith’s stomach started growling. 

“Hungry?” Lance asked, snickering. 

Keith’s stomach growled louder. “Not at all,” he said, rubbing his stomach, silently screaming for it to shut up. 

Their kiss had been forgotten. At least, not spoken aloud about. Not mentioned once, despite them having read Lance’s awesome kiss scene over and over again. Keith had felt butterflies flapping, pretty much munching down on his intestines when he thought back to Lance’s lips. 

Finally able to comprehend what had happened. He had resolved that they were super soft, Lance’s lips. And he smelled so good, Keith wanted to lay his head on Lance’s shoulder only to grab a long whiff of his intoxicating cologne. He could feel his body working against him again, feeling his side inching closer to Lance. 

Before more things progressed on Keith’s behalf of never thinking, he jumped out of his bed. “Dinner?” he asked Lance, trying his best to feign nonchalance. 

Lance yawned, stretching his arms. “Actually, I think I’m gonna head home. I have… some important things to sort out.” 

“Sure,” Keith said. “I’ll follow you out. You happy with the chapter?” he quickly shot in, just to be sure. It was nice having Lance around. He felt comfortable with him by his side, he wouldn’t have minded having him here a while longer. 

“Yeah,” said Lance, voice breathy. “Yeah, yeah. Super happy with it.” 

Lies. Keith made a face. 

“I am!” Lance assured excitedly. “Keith, I can’t do more with it. It’s as good as it can get right now. With my writer’s block, it can’t get any better. I promise.” 

Keith made a sigh on his way to his door. “If you say so. C’mon, I’ll throw your ass out of my house.”

Following him to the main door, Adam busy in the kitchen cooking up Keith’s favorite dinner, mac and cheese, yes, he was a simple man, Lance had politely declined to any dinner saying he had things to do at home that needed to be done tonight. Standing by the door, Lance wrapped his big, dark-blue scarf three times around his neck, his high-sculpted cheeks bunched up sweetly like a hamster. 

“Well,” Keith started, but cringed. He had no idea how to end this. All he could think about was Lance’s lips, his eyes sliding down unbeknownst to stare deeply at Lance’s scarf. Thank God, his scarf was hiding those lips or else Keith might have—

Lance dragged his scarf down and slotted his lips, those sweet, soft lips that never faded from Keith’s memory, over Keith’s own lips. 

Another kiss. Short and sweet, but enough to erupt all the volcanoes on Earth simultaneously in Keith’s gut. Lance pulled away, smacking his currently glistened lips together with earnest accomplishment. “Well,” mirrored Lance remarkingly, a blue wink beaming at Keith, then he opened the door, saluting his farewell with two fingers to his brow and the door closed soundly with a familiar click. 

Speechless—the wind literally knocked out of him, Keith ran into the kitchen. “Adam! We need to talk!” 

Adam dropped his big spoon in the dinner pot, yelping in fright from Keith’s loud exclamation. “The hell?! What, what is it? Did someone die?"

Keith dropped into a chair, sagging and running his hands over his sweaty face. “I think I like Lance.” 


	24. Chapter 24

Adam was absolutely no help at all. 

While Adam laughed hysterically, his arms overlapping his gut and the pot cooking behind him with delicious smelling mac and cheese, Keith put on an unamused grimace sending it directly at his brother-in-law. “Nevermind,” he said grumpily. 

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that, Keith.” Adam sauntered over to Keith’s sluggish body, grabbing both his shoulders with his claws and shaking him mercilessly. “Lighten up! You have a crush. This is great!” 

“No, it’s awful.” Keith pouted, sagging further down his chair, almost hitting the floor. 

He felt two arms drag him back up. Adam ruffled his unruly hair. “How can it be awful? From the looks of it, I think Lance might like you back. He came here personally to work on the chapter with you—in your room. I bet you both sat on your bed, all close and cosy and cute together. You should ask him out.” 

“It’s impossible,” blurted Keith. Without thinking, the kiss,  _ both _ kisses, popped up in his mind, speeding by on replay bugging the hell out of him. “Like—” he bursted out into a tangent, “We kissed once—I didn’t mean to—and he tells me we can’t date, which I agree with, but then the dude has the audacity to kiss me  _ again _ on his way out the door! I don’t get him! He’s fucking with me, toying me—playing me like a fiddle in disguise…” 

“Woah, woah, woah—Keith. You gotta dial it back a notch,” said Adam, turning the stove off and bringing the pot of mac to the table, setting it on top of a pot holder. He slid Keith a bowl and a fork, filling his glass up with ice-cold milk. “Start from the beginning. You guys actually… kissed?” 

“Like kiss—kiss? It wasn’t an accident, like you were trying to get something and leaned over and your lips happened to fall on top of Lance’s?” 

“Yes! We kissed—kissed,” wheezed Keith, manhandling the big spoon in the pot and plopping in a squelch of mac of cheesy goodness into his bowl. 

He dug into his dinner, airing his tongue out. “Fuck, that’s hot!” Which came out more like:  _ Fuff, das ot! _

Swallowing, Keith blew on his next forkful, tipping his dark eyes up to Adam. Who, by the by, was wearing his usual smug grin, waiting patiently and eating soundlessly on his own dinner for Keith to give him the whole story. 

The taste of delicious melted cheddar slid down his throat, the pasta perfectly al dente. Adam should have been a cook, Keith thought as he sounded out an appreciative hum forgetting that he had to bounce into what happened between him and Lance. 

“Right.” Keith swallowed, gurgling down a long guzzle of his milk. The glass slammed on the table-top. “So I kissed Lance.” 

“You kissed Lance?” Adam pointed his fork at Keith. “ _ You _ ? Like you just leaned in and kissed him?” 

“Pretty much, yeah.” Keith threw his fork at the bowl, digging his fingers into his scalp as he leaned on his elbows. “I don’t know what I was thinking. We were talking about writing good kissing scenes and then suddenly I just grabbed Lance’s stupid, cute face and put my lips on him. 

“No laughing. This is a serious matter. I’m confuddled as fuck right now. Do I like him? Does he like me? Should I not do anything about this because he said that we can’t date.” 

Adam stopped him. “Hold up. He said that?” 

Keith nodded, feeling his heart sinking. “Yeah, said that he had some issues he had to sort out. Maybe he’s already in a relationship, or has commitment issues… Or maybe—” His heart silently cracked. “He just let me down but without hurting my feelings.” 

Almost as if he could hear the cracks breaking in Keith’s heart, Adam put a gentle hand on the crown of Keith’s head. Something Shiro would normally do if he were here. “Hey, buddy. I highly, highly doubt that. I know you two are writing partners, and Lance is probably a perfectionist, but the way he smiled when you came into the room earlier, that spelled more than friendship. I’m positive he likes you romantically, but if he says there are some issues that need sorting, I’d respect that. Maybe someday in the future, you two can try dating. But… no more kisses, okay?” 

“But what if he springs a new kiss on me? What do I do then?!” Keith whined, circling back to when Lance sprung him with _ his _ lips. Damn those exceedingly soft lips. He felt like he had been tangled in some kind of silken web by a tempting Black Widow. 

Their second seminar was already tomorrow. Keith wouldn’t have any time to think this through. He’d meet up with Lance, then have to either talk about that second kiss or pretend it never existed. The only good thing that came out of this was that Keith had forgotten entirely that Lance was his favorite author. 

Frack. Lance was still Keith’s favorite author and he could  _ not _ —should not—be romantically involved with his favorite author. It was uncalled for. Unprofessional. Lance would think that Keith only started dating him to get that final book. 

In retrospect, that was the general idea to begin with. Before Keith found out he started developing feelings for the genuinely nice guy. But now that intermingling lips, cute writing dates to cafés and races on scooters to the docks had wriggled their way into Keith’s little scheme, he had to be sneaky. Just never tell Lance that he was his fan. He’d have to undo reading any of Lance’s books, even if he could recite heaps of amazingly written quotes and scenes word for word. 

Talk about tiring, and so typical Keith’s luck. 

Adam had cleared the table while Keith had unwillingly gone into a deep-dive about his time with Lance McClain. His head hurt; it throbbed. This had become too much for him to handle. All he wanted was to write an angsty, cosy story, preferably on his lonesome, but now he had mixed himself up with a blue-eyed boy who turned out to be his most prized author who had written almost to completion the manuscript to the book that he so desperately and needily needed. 

A few black strands of hair were pulled out when Keith dragged his hands away from his tangled mop of hair. He bonked his forehead to the tabletop, hard. Then he screeched out loudly till his throat felt hoarse as if he wished he never got partnered up with Lance. 

“I can’t do this, Adam. I quit,” Keith said, defeated.

Adam chuckled. A steaming warm cup of coffee rested in front of Keith’s face. He tipped his eyes past his lashes to stare at the steam from the mug billowing in braids up towards the ceiling. His favorite hazelnut creamer awoke him from his terrors. The mug felt warm to the touch, inviting. He tipped the lip of the cup to his mouth and sighed. 

“Forget I said anything at all,” Keith said past the lip of the mug, blowing at the scorching liquid. Adam’s expression remained subtle, albeit irritatingly teasing. But sympathetic. “Adam, shut up! I’ll deal with it. I just won’t let my crush for Lance grow any deeper. We’ll finish the story, then never see each other again.” 

Taking a sip of his own coffee, Adam said nothing, just gave off a glint from his glasses, his lips twerked at the side of his mug. “If you say so,” he said at last, taking a sip. 

“I say so,” said Keith.

But he didn’t mean it. 

Obviously. 


	25. Chapter 25

Keith couldn’t get the kiss out of his head.

Both kisses, to be exact. They had been flooding his brain all night. Lance’s puckering lips slanting over his own; kissable, and damn, so soft. His own lips devouring the author whole, awaiting with a lusting want for another session. 

Of writing.

Session of writing! 

He ordered a triple espresso this morning, his styrofoam cup drunk to its dregs before he even made it to the auditorium. Good thing he ordered two cups. As he waltzed haphazardly into the auditorium, not nearly as packed as he had expected, and the seminar started in 5 min., Lance, to Keith’s keen perception, wasn’t anywhere to be found. 

“Looking for someone?” 

Keith jumped out of his skin when he heard Lance’s smooth voice so close to his ear. Feeling red all over, he swung his face away to avoid Lance catching his flustered complexion. Which, unbearably, was always easy to notice on his fair face… and the rest of his body, but Lance wouldn’t see that. Maybe. 

No. 

Nope. 

“Jesus, you need to stop scaring the crap out of me,” Keith said, breathing heavily, still a little jittered. “Do you always sneak up on people around sharp corners?” 

“In my defence,” Lance said, walking up the atrium to find them seats closer to the middle, “There are no sharp corners here, and I wasn’t sneaking up on you. You looked like this lost little lamb and I happened to be behind you and ask nicely if you were looking for someone.” 

Two vacant seats presented themselves and Lance plopped down in the furthest one, draping a long leg over the other then cast a smug grin at Keith. “I didn’t look like a lamb,” seethed Keith, dropping down in the folded seat next to Lance. 

Side-eyeing his partner, Keith started wondering if Lance thought about the kiss, both of them, too. “You kissed me yesterday,” said Keith without thinking. 

“And you kissed me,” remarked Lance in return. “Fair is fair.” 

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Keith hissed, a hand half-covering his mouth. 

Adam had walked into the auditorium, preparing his laptop, connecting it to the large screen in the middle of the room, a powerpoint titled: **Character Development and World Building: How important are the two?,** vibrated brightly on the projector screen. 

Obviously ignoring him, Keith folded his arms hotly, swinging his ignited dark eyes at Lance. “Why did you kiss me before you left, when you stated so pointedly that we couldn’t date.” 

Lance shrugged without staring back at Keith, keeping an interested gaze down at Adam, who had begun the seminar. And to Keith’s surprise, Adam had been right, almost one third of the class who were here the first time never showed up. “I don’t know why, Keith. I just… I dunno... felt like it.” 

“You  _ felt _ like it?” 

“Stop sounding like a broken record!” Lance hissed through his teeth, holding down a snort; his face scrunched up like an idiot. “When you sprung me with that kiss in your room, I… sort of… liked it. I was surprised, but after a hot minute, I eased into it. And yeah,” he breathed out dejectedly, “I know I said that I’m having issues right now, which I am, I just didn’t want to forget about that kiss…” 

“So you kissed me again to savour the moment or something?” shot Keith in inquisitively. “Is that even allowed? What does that mean, that you’re attracted to me? That you do wanna date?” 

Letting out an exasperated breath while typing up a storm as he sucked in every word coming out of Adam’s mouth; chattering on about character development and world building. Keith should be paying attention because he knows Adam will be grilling him later, but this conversation with Lance turned out to be a tiny bit more interesting. 

Lance threw a small wave of his hand in Keith’s face. “I don’t know. I do like you, Keith. You’re cute and you like to read and write, we’ve gotten along nicely these past weeks and you have a nice—” He closed his mouth, going back to his computer pretending as if Keith didn’t hear that last part. 

Curious, Keith leaned in. Of course, Lance smelled like that intoxicating cologne again, dizzying up a storm in Keith’s sinuses. “I have a nice what?” he whispered coolly. “Smile? Eyes?  _ Butt _ ?” 

Stiffening at the mention of his backside, Keith knew he had him. “Oh—” he sounded out like a cocky idiot; he had no idea where this came from but Keith was kind of living for it and he could see how Lance suddenly started squirming next to him acting like he too was enjoying his ploy at a low, dark voice. He proceeded, “You know… if we eventually started dating, I’d let you…  _ touch it _ .” Keith stressed on the two last words, having them slide out of his mouth smooth like honey.

With slitted blue eyes, Lance had stopped typing, Adam’s voice continuing without noticing what was happening up in the seats. If Keith had been bolder, he’d plant a hand on Lance’s thigh, riding it in a direction that would be seen as quite inappropriate at a school. A university. Well, given the building, maybe it could be deemed somewhat appropriate what they were doing, they were adults after all. 

The older of them struggled to form any words towards Keith’s—albeit poorly—attempt at being sensual, or seductive, or whatever—he had no idea what was happening. “Lance? Who’s the little lamb now?” Keith’s lips curled flirtily all on their own. In his mind he was screaming. 

“Shut up,” giggled Lance. His lips curled on their own to a laxing, sweet smile, striking Keith so hard with a blast to his heart. Damn him. “It’s not wise, Keith. Us dating. I would love to go out on a date, but we can’t. I’m still standing on my reasons because boy you don’t wanna get messed up in my personal business right now. And there's the matter that we're writing partners.” 

“But what about after we turn in our story? How about I ask you out then?” Keith felt like he sounded so desperate, but he just couldn’t get this guy out of his head. At all times, he saw Lance’s face. 

His favorite author, now turned into a person who could become, well, his favorite person too. If only Keith had told Lance the truth the moment they met, that he was a fan, saw the manuscript and connected the dots. God, he had been so foolish. So blindsided. 

The seminar continued with ease. Adam had given the class a ten minute break now, disappearing out of the auditorium. 

“Lance?” Keith pushed. He really wanted an answer. 

Lance chewed on his teeth. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Keith. But I don’t think I’ll be ready for a relationship for a long time. I don’t want you to wait for me. Though you are being very persistent,” he said, shooting up a brown brow at Keith, “How can that be?” 

“You’re super cute?” Keith dragged out indecisively. 

Humming, Lance smiled. “I am really cute,” he agreed, throwing a wink at Keith. “But that’s not reason enough to fall that hard for me. Our kiss, sorry, kisses, weren’t like fireworks. They didn’t feel like someone had written the best kiss scene known to man.” 

“Did they have to be that spectacular?” asked Keith, trying to be reasonable. “Stories portray often a false reality to love. Like, so many readers expect to experience a romance they have read in their favorite book, but life’s not like that… It’s actually far from it. Novels give us a false reality of love, and yeah, I can admit that I too am often swayed by my favorite romance stories, but I’m not stupid, I know I’ll never experience love like that.” 

“Oh,” Lance chimed, “but your voice says otherwise.” He looked disheartened all of sudden, wearing a distant look. “I don’t think I’ll be able to give you that kind of love regardless, Keith. So don’t get your hopes up, okay?” 

Talk about turntables.

What had just happened? Keith slid further down his seat, folding his arms and angling a gaze up at Lance. His look was still so distant as if he had a lot to think about. Chewing on everything Lance said, he tried to interpret his words, deciphering if Lance was trying to say something between the lines, but Lance wasn’t a book. 

“Of course,” was all Keith mustered up to say, then finally started paying attention when Adam started up the second half of the seminar. 


	26. Chapter 26

Time certainly was a bitch. 

After the seminar, almost two weeks had sped by faster than Keith could recall that Adam had had not two, but four arguments with Shiro on the phone. 

Which meant that Adam’s cover had been blown. Shiro knew he was living at home. It wasn’t that Adam wasn’t allowed to live at home or anything, it was, technically, his place too. It’s just that they never really officially moved in together. So, Adam owned his own place just a car ride from here. 

Adam was speed-texting. 

“Shiro again?” Keith asked looking up from his social-media scrolling. 

Plopping down with a loud sigh next to Keith on the couch, Adam twisted his lips to the side trying to decode what was another long, furious text from his husband. “Yeah. He says that I need to consider renting or selling my place soon if I want to continue living here with you guys.” 

“And that’s a bad thing because—?” Keith opened his mouth and pinched his brows giving Adam a dumb look. “He’s not kicking you out, Adam! He wants you to stay. Here, I’ll help you find a real-estate agency.” Keith started tapping into Google. 

Adam put a hand over Keith’s screen. “I appreciate it, Keith. But this is between me and your brother. I have my reasons why I still own my place. Mostly because it belonged to my Abuelo and Abuela and I don’t have the heart to sell it yet, and because….” he made a very tired sigh this time, slumping his shoulders, “I need to have my space from your brother. I love him and he loves me and we are married, even if we did get married too young. But I still need time on my own. And that place has become like a sanctuary to me.” 

“I don’t know,” Keith said. “I still think if you want to save your marriage and prove to my brother you love him, you should sell the place. Or maybe—?” 

“Maybe—?” Adam sparked, clearly open for suggestions. 

Keith bobbed his head. “You could sell this place and move into yours?” 

“But what about you?” Adam said. 

“Me?” The thought hadn’t come to mind. Keith twisted his own lips with curiosity, trying to mull on the idea. “I’ll find my own place. I’ve been meaning to move out for some time, but you know how Shiro is.” 

A timid look overtook Adam’s features. “Yep, he can be such a mother-hen. He just can’t let you go yet, and you’re what? 23 now?!” 

“Exactly,” replied Keith, already scrolling through available apartments nearby. 

While he scrolled a text message appeared on his phone.  **Lance.**

_ Hey, you! I’ve read through your chapter. Or let’s say DEVOURED IT. Holy crow, Keith. It’s so good, we must discuss ASAP!! Call me? <3 _

“Ooh,” Adam cooed next to Keith, leaning over to read his text. “Even a little heart at the end. You guys are so in love.” 

“Shut up,” said Keith, his cheeks heating. He instantly ignored Adam to write a reply. But then he reread the text and found Lance’s number instead. 

“Hey you,” answered Lance in a smooth tone on his end of the call. “I love it! Can you meet me at our usual spot? Like right now, pwease???” 

Adam was making kissy noises and putting on fake puckers to bug Keith. He shot a hand in his brother-in-law’s face replying Lance in a distressed tone, “Sure. Let me just murder Adam first and I’ll be there in 10.” 

“In 10? That’s a quick murder,” remarked Lance with a sweet chuckle. “You’re not gonna hide the body or clean the place first? You know, just in case.” 

“Oh, it’ll be a clean death. I’ll make it look like he suffered from choking on a nut or something,” Keith said, laughing under his breath. “See you soon, bye!” 

“Adiós cariño!” 

Relenting to Keith’s fussy, disturbed hands, Adam cooed again, “Did I just hear Lance call you carino?” 

Keith got up from the sofa, locating his red beanie. “Yeah, so?” 

“Do you know what that means?” 

“Given from your smug grin, I assume  _ you _ do?” Keith shot back mockingly, having found said red beanie. He pulled it on. “I looked it up online when he first called me that. It means like cutie or something in his mother-tongue. I like it. It’s better than that Mullet crap he called me before.” 

Adam had a finger to his chin, humming. “Mullet, ey? I can see it.” 

“Not you, too!” Keith whined. He stomped out of the living room. “I’m going to meet Lance, and yes, I know what you’re thinking but it’s not like that! We agreed to not go forth on dating, so just pack up all your stupid retorts.” 

Once his leather jacket rested snugly over his shoulders and toed into his boots, he caught Adam leaning against the wall now. Keith shot out a finger, but Adam held up defensive hands. “I’m not saying a word. I’ll butt out, if you butt out.” 

A silent agreement had been made. Keith hugged Adam and left to meet with Lance.


End file.
